


Vacancies

by Ooze



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, M/M, V is Not Part of Vergil (Devil May Cry), but that doesn't happen until post-game, so in this fic they're on the way there, these two are meant to be an item
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooze/pseuds/Ooze
Summary: A reprieve from weeks of toil leads to an unexpected opportunity for V to open up a little, and to contemplate pesky feelings while he's at it.
Relationships: V (Devil May Cry)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. The Hotel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vaebled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaebled/gifts).



> Mainly written for my friend, featuring _their_ OC. We've put these characters and their relationship through a lot of development; so, some things which may feel vague to others will be understood by us.

**JUNE 6th, 2:29 PM**

“Spotted one up ahead!”

Worn as he was, V traveled in the very direction Griffon had returned from. He walked with resolve while his friend circled in the sky, led toward the afternoon's goal with half a hope for a proper reprieve in his heart. With so much of the city leveled, there was little left standing tall enough to block out the sun, and in late-spring weather that amounted to a baking heat. It wasn't enough that he had to have more than his share of exercise in the day, but he had to endure an all-new breed of climate as well. The Qliphoth may have affected even the weather. It'd been a dry number of days since sporadic rain fell; and it was objectively easier to stay dry than it was to keep cool. Even Daemon appreciated breaking into buildings just to keep out of the wet, and that had been done more than either of them liked.

For a demon, he was utilitarian, supportive, and obedient, so there was due confidence in him from V as he walked along without bothering to look: he heard Daemon's footsteps outside his range of sight and surmised that his latest companion positioned himself neither near nor far. He was quiet save for the brief exchange between himself, V, and Griffon when the warlock made known a desire for some scout work. Perhaps it made him moody to lose that contest. V hadn't pried at all and simply followed his familiar. The inconvenience of having to walk for miles beneath an unforgiving sun—and it was a shame since it'd been a pretty, sparsely-clouded day—would have been enough to deter any sensible folk, but V was oftentimes uncompromising when he set his mind on something. He'd finally seen it, however, and drove himself forward until the thing loomed overhead and cast its welcome shadow.

A hotel.

A beaten, broken-into hotel that had somehow not fallen apart when demonic roots sprouted in the area. Griffon _earned_ his master's commendation for this little treasure when they entered. Of course, it appeared as though the lobby suffered a rampage, with even the glass doors blown open and the land as lawless as it could have ever gotten. Miraculously, some power was running: the emergency lights glowed, and the interior of the building felt a world cooler than the outside. With the party instantly relieved to be out of the sun, V took the time to observe his surroundings. It would have been impossible to miss streaks of blood across the floor, dried and seeming to form a broken trail deeper into the hotel. But the time to follow it was not now, and no peril had been foreknown. Curious, V walked to the front desk.

An odor in the air was detected by all but deterred no one. Distant though it seemed, it was offensive all the same and not any one member of the party would bring it to attention.

“Seen the décor in this place? The designers had some _weird_ taste,” Griffon critiqued freely. He'd found a couch _mauled_ and decided to settle for a break. He did not share in his master's confidence regarding the other demon in the room and, so, eyed him as he loitered about in the space between sorcerer and familiar.

“I rather like it,” his master replied with a soft awe. His eyes scanned the floor, walls, ceiling, the furniture and other amenities, taking in what remained of the atmosphere and attempting to recreate it in his imagination. It was made to look dated, after the sensibilities of the 1940s. No wonder it appealed to V, who considered himself _pass_ _é_ on a number of fronts.

“Yeah, you would,” Griffon jibed harmlessly.

V had only a smile for that, amused even at his own expense. His eyes were particularly drawn to the telephone on the desk that had been knocked over, and closer to him the service bell that had not gone astray. Without regard he tapped on the bell, then twice more in succession. The sound pleased him but did far less for Griffon, who was quick to scold V for tempting unwanted attention.

“What're you doin'?! Tryin' to wake something up?!”

“Naturally. I expect to be taken to our rooms.” A joke, punctuated by an easy smile when V turned to face him.

“Like hell! You don't know what's up there waiting for chumps like us!”

“You'd have let me know if you'd sensed anything.”

“Well…!”

The argument won, V stepped away from the desk with a gait almost haughty as he glided across the lobby. “I'm sure there are vacancies. Now comes the matter of _going_ upstairs.” The cane swung idly from his hand, like a pendulum counting the seconds he spent in contemplation. With four stories in all, the odds were favorable that there would be at least a handful of rooms in habitable condition. “The backup power might have been running for weeks now, and I don't want to risk getting stuck in a lift if electricity should finally die today.” The elevators did not _look_ like they were operable to begin with, and, frankly, V didn't want to try them. The absence of stable, widespread electricity would certainly prove a challenge, but what were a few more hindrances to rest and relief that V _hoped_ he would enjoy for at least an hour? But his concern for the moment rested with no visible means of reaching the upper floors. What appeared to be scratches and more blood on the elevator doors would not have been deterrent enough for V if he only had the security that he could ride them. This was when he welcomed Daemon's input.

“There's a stairwell, y'know?” There was a look on his face that suggested the solution was the most obvious one in the world. He had his thumbs in his pockets, stood closer to the elevators than either of his companions, _cool_ in manner while he loitered and waited with his eyes on the group's leader.

 _Of course…_ There was a flush of embarrassment in V for his naivety, and he took the briefest moment to turn away, as if distracted, just to choke down the feeling. He knew Daemon expected V's response and he'd felt that gaze lingering on his person, albeit fleetingly. V was thankful for having Griffon in the room, as the response prompted had come from _him_ instead and it was instantaneous.

“What do you know, the big bad wolf's got some brains after all!”

“And the wolf's got some _bite_ to 'im, in case you forgot,” the demon countered with a _smart_ flash of teeth.

V was relieved that he'd evidently gotten away with his pride intact, though still he preferred to dismiss the thought altogether when he composed himself. Fortified, he walked toward a corridor in search of an emergency exit. He was tailed promptly by demons. Thankfully, these exits spread throughout the hotel clearly attracted attention. Quiet steps were fast to meet their end when V halted by the door, and then he turned toward his companions. “Daemon, why don't you go ahead of us?” More of an order than a suggestion; he thought he ought not risk his neck by stepping through first. But Daemon was good enough to oblige him, offer him a “Sure,” and, upon entering, affirmed that no hazards were in store. Damaged though it was, V followed Daemon all the way through with a familiar temporarily hidden away.

He tired himself, but he was wholeheartedly grateful to Daemon for holding the door open for him. He took a moment to rest on his feet, leaning half of his weight over his cane while Griffon once again peeled free from his body to observe V from the carpeted floor.

“Why didn't we stop at the second floor first? Look at you, those stairs really gave you what for!”

“I thought the top floor would be our best bet,” answered his mildly irritated master. The warlock eyed both of his companions briefly before sending them off in search of a room they could use—though Griffon remained and left the job all up to Daemon. They would make certain to catch up to him. It rather embarrassed V to know that only three flights of stairs would wipe him out so soon; but he'd been tired since arriving at the establishment and the added exertion was something he could have done without. Well, he would not be bothered over his own shortcomings; he was reasonably prompt to walk onward, Griffon in tow.

The uppermost floor did not look as hideous as the ground floor: less blood, less debris, but many of the windows were broken and, as consequence, allowed invasion. Doors were forced open as well, some pulled off their hinges and others broken through. There was, however, a very clear indication of human activity, man-made chaos that too often erupted amid panic. Daemon's call drew V toward an open door. Peering into the room, V sighted clothes and baggage strewn about and abandoned, two beds in shambles, furnishings in some slight disarray, and shattered glass beneath an open window. _No gore_. Not a grisly stain as far as he could see, and he was both impressed and confounded by that. And so it seemed he'd already found a room in relatively decent shape, with even its door in one solid piece held open by a rolling suitcase. What luck.

V was largely silent upon stepping through the threshold to drink in his surroundings. With him went Griffon, who found an adequate perch atop a wardrobe and spared a cursory glance around. He remarked, “Almost feels like home,” in some halfhearted attempt at jest. But he greedily eyed one of the beds and announced, “I call the spare bed!”

_Home was about as big as this room._

... _Was,_ as if no more. V would believe that. He knew better than to allow his thoughts to dwell, so turned to step toward a night table to distract himself from a pending bout of melancholy. The lamp that sat atop had been knocked onto the bed. Its styling was dated to match the rest of the hotel. V had no opinion of it; he opened the single drawer only to find a book inside.

“What're you doin'?” Daemon wondered, some little distance behind the warlock.

“Looking.” In crisp, untouched condition was a Bible observed by curious peridots as they'd never beheld such a thing in the flesh. Handled easily in one hand for the moment, but V wanted to inspect it further. With his cane promptly tucked beneath an arm, he employed both hands in prying open pages meant for the eyes of the devout. V was no critic _or_ proponent of religion; a perfect agnostic, he felt nothing but a sense of irony as he quickly scanned the print. There was a snigger to follow, a reflective smirk born at once. “This is used to ward off evil, but it hasn't seemed to work.” Idly he turned the pages, a little overwhelmed by the amount of text that absolutely packed just about every page.

“Not even dozens of 'em made a bit of difference to save this place.”

“Dozens?” V spared blue eyes a look.

“Give or take.”

“...Ah, you mean the ones in the rooms here.”

A head of black canted and hands rested over hips, and there was a tone suggesting _reminder_ to Daemon's voice when he gave the warlock an affirmation.

The mind slipped temporarily; though V did genuinely forget that it was a common practice to leave Holy Bibles in hotel rooms for whatever reason. To be caught _almost_ fully ignorant made V turn his gaze from Daemon again—now to resume looking over the book without a word said, forgetting that he feared sounding so naive for a second time that day while considering his former thought. “Well,” he didn't take long to say, “to my point: everything that's happened here, all the 'evil' that's come into this building, didn't think twice about _these_ books. That goes to show you,” V expounded as he finally closed the Bible, “that evil is subjective.” He was nonetheless mindful when he returned the book to its spot. With a palm once more over the cane's grip, its tip firm to the floor, V pulled his gaze up to settle it on Daemon's. “There are, at least, demons that aren't afraid of the things we so often want them to be.”

“You want _me_ to be afraid?” Daemon crossed his arms then, perhaps defensively in V's eyes. There was the air of challenge about him, a gleam in the eyes that could not be deciphered, but given the curving of his lips, he might have been more playful than anything.

V had a sudden topic he wanted to explore, but he entertained Daemon with a simple “No.”

Griffon, by contrast, had a word of warning for his master and took no time to speak it. “Just make sure you keep those holy things away from _me_. I'm not taking any chances, you know, and don't think I don't see that dangerous look in your eye.”

V flashed him a coy simper and feigned ignorance through silence. He decided then to quit the subject, satisfied with his familiar's reaction and needing not one, apart from a shrug of shoulders, from Daemon. Conversation could come any other day; now, the matter at hand—and it was Daemon's initiative that had him excuse himself from the party, stepping out of the room to look for another for himself. V would have asked him to do exactly that anyway, and there was at least some general agreement among the trio as far as separate accommodations were concerned.

Once left in the sole company of his familiar, V stepped around the room to inspect it further, but it was something of a disappointment that he could not enjoy a moment of _quiet_. Griffon simply could not shut up, come hell or high water, but he at least had the decency to soften the pitch of his voice when he spoke to the only pair of ears listening. Leaning over the edge of the wardrobe, the raptor narrowed gleaming eyes at tattooed shoulders that were turned from him. “Okay, level with me. _That_ was weird, right?”

“What was?”

“'Evil is subjective',” he parroted— _hush-hush_ , as though he'd a secret to keep. “'Some demons ain't afraid',” he paraphrased. “Wolfy didn't disagree with you, pal.”

“He didn't agree, either.”

“Listen—okay, _don't_ listen, 'cause I know you aren't going to anyway—but think about this,” the demon pressed: “if he's not afraid of divine symbols and all that, what could ever stop him? I mean, he's capable of doing _anything_ and getting away with it, which spells trouble for us 'cause he could—!”

“ _But_ he won't.” V's voice cut through Griffon's like a blade, and upon turning to frown his displeasure at golden irises, he shook his head. “Really, Griffon, we've been over this countless times. Now you're just... _grasping_ at anything you can use against him.”

“But—”

“It's a coincidence,” assured V smoothly, confident as he poked around a dusty writing desk, his eyes again torn away from his company. “If he wanted to kill us, he would have long ago. He's had his opportunities. I think that speaks for itself.”

“Don't be so sure!” Griffon insisted, irritated. “He's probably got this whole thing planned. He's banking on our trust to lull us into a false sense of security, then _blammo_! And _y_ _ou're_ falling for it! I'm telling you, he's a no-good double-crosser who's only after two things—and if he ain't getting one, he'll settle for the other.”

“Your paranoia's beginning to scare me,” his master said mockingly, going so far as to widen his eyes. For this, V found it necessary to face his familiar again, brows knitted and his tone one of authentic ignorance. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“We all know he wants your life, and _you've_ seen the way he eyes you, don't you even pretend with me.” Hackles raised, eyes narrowed into slits. “Hell, it wouldn't surprise me at all if he tries for your scrawny ass _before_ he offs you and the rest of us.”

V didn't have a rebuttal for him. Frankly, arguing with Griffon was fatiguing. He exhaled deeply as though his very soul weighed him down, and he walked to the foot of the bed left unclaimed to sit from a sudden need to rest, eyes falling away. It rather shocked him to hear of the ideas making the rounds in Griffon's mind, though he'd known such things were there. He _could_ call it concern, but should he? Daemon had a sort of look in his eyes on occasion, it was true, but to imagine that he would betray V so cruelly...? Maybe, _maybe_ it was awfully naive of him, but V could not bring himself to consider the possibility. Daemon had only been helpful to them all. And if he _had_ been baiting for their trust...he'd had V's, if even only a portion of it, but he'd had it. And, yes, that could have been a fatal mistake as Griffon had believed it to be. It may see them killed after all, but it wasn't a chance to take given the current stakes. For better or worse, they had Daemon on their side and there he would stay until…

Everything was touch and go at the moment. None of them could really project what would come in weeks, even days, and that was in itself a dissatisfying, difficult element to work with. V had to live, think and plan for the day—it was all he had left. Surely Griffon could have appreciated that to some small degree; alas, he was about as flexible as concrete when he wanted to be. V hadn't the decorum to look his familiar in the eye since the latter hadn't shown him decorum when it came to the benefit of the doubt—and _trust_ in his master's instincts and decisions, which might have been most insulting of all. He wasn't sure what should be said, if anything _should_ have been said, but he supposed his silence was the same as defeat and so thought only to say, “Just give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“I'm telling you, V, that's all the leeway he needs.” That sounded like an earnest try at persuasion, and in Griffon there was a veritable sense of urgency to be understood. V must have known it, he'd known Griffon for years, but neither of them were willing to give in to the other. Not even an inch. That, Griffon knew and expected. The way he'd gone ignored annoyed him, but not so that he would lose his temper. He took a moment to feel the air for the demon's approach, then continued when he was assured that _he_ wasn't near. “What makes you so sure he wouldn't _try_ something underhanded? What's really stopping him from doing _whatever_ he wants, huh? He's all demon like me, but wild and free like any other. He's got you in _his_ hands, kid, it's not the other way around.”

“I don't know where you see that.”

“And I don't know why you defend him so much!”

“There's really nothing else to do, either for you or me,” V countered, emotionally spent. He looked at Griffon with nothing short of a tired frown. “It's time you get used to it. He's not a bad demon, and I prefer to go with my gut on that than suspect him of every little thing.” There was a moment of silence, and while V sat idly, Griffon had gone to his respective corner to contemplate his next move. It turned out that V had been getting a little of the break he sought after all, sitting on a remarkably solid yet comfortable mattress, out of unforgiving weather and adequately protected from the dangers beyond these walls. Really not a bad find at all; too bad Griffon could not behave long enough to warrant V's appreciation.

And that damned demon welcomed a glint in his eyes, a newly steeled backbone, and the decision to allow his master no _full_ rest. Again leaning over from his perch, he became the day's instigator. “Yeah, there is. There's _totally_ something you can do about it, but you don't wanna hurt his feelings, do you?”

“It has nothing to do with his feelings.”

“Oh, but it does. When have you ever been a dick to him? When have you _snapped_ at him? I don't remember a time when you've ever said _anything_ mean to his face—it's usually behind his back. Hell, even _then_ you wanna forget you brought anything up at all. Oh, sure, you put him in his place here and there but you're about as threatening as a bunny rabbit when you do.” Griffon knew he had V when he was thrown a petulant look. “It's time you faced the music, kid. You _care_ about his feelings. You just can't stand it when I insult the idiot!”

“Because you judge him _unfairly_.” Tested, V stood to meet the challenge. Ironically enough, it was to control the sound of his voice so it wouldn't carry. “What does it even matter to you? I have my reasons. You know I've never been cruel, at least not to those who didn't deserve it, and I have no need to make an enemy out of—”

“Whoa, what? _Reasons_? So you're protecting him deliberately?”

“I'm _not_ protecting him. I just mean that I can't treat him badly for nothing.”

“Then you must like him a lot more than you like me,” Griffon argued, “if you're gonna go out of your way to be nice to some stranger while you abuse the hell out of _me_.”

“Griffon—!”

“Wait, wait, _wait_ one goddamned minute.” He pretended a light bulb lit up above his head, as though the truth of the matter finally dawned on him, and he would go on to exaggerate his discovery. Even though V had tried to cut in to make clear his case, Griffon's voice would not permit it. “I get it now. I fucking _get_ it. That's the point, here, isn't it? You like him.” The demon was all mischief and wit, eyes gleaming with craftiness as he fought the laughter that bubbled within. He could see utter displeasure all across his master's face— _genuine_ distaste that proved he'd been pulled right into the prank.

V, nothing short of sour, donned a snarl that, however, had its _other_ reasons for being there. His arm drew up and pointed his cane sharply at the demon sitting just out of reach. “I _tolerate_ him the way I tolerate _you_!” He let his tone climb, it couldn't be helped. “I know what kind of man he is and he's just the kind I stay _away_ from. If he's with us now, it's for practical reasons. But don't expect me to do what you want me to; this is all my responsibility and I'll handle it the way I think is best.”

“...Shit, you _like-like_ him, don't you?” The weapon that wanted to shoo Griffon off was evaded effortlessly. “Ha! I can't believe it! You actually _like_ that son of a bitch! I should've fuckin' known!” _Now_ he laughed, unfolding his wings to _guffaw_ both genuinely and out of jest. Frankly, at this point he was amused by _himself_. He descended from the wardrobe to grab a hold of the cane, with whose owner he argued tirelessly on. “Just look at you! You're blushing!”

V _wasn't_ , but the suggestion instantly embarrassed him and, inevitably, _did_ invite a sudden flush of color to his face. _That damned bird!_ “I am not! Griffon, let go!”

“No way! You're _seriously_ blushing!”

V yanked, now firmly grabbing the cane with both hands and giving Griffon more resistance. Still, however, they fought like children over who would ultimately possess it. “Stop lying! You're just wanting to aggravate me!”

“I call it as I see it! And now I finally understand everything!”

“Would you _stop_?!”

“Just tell the truth and I'll drop the whole thing!”

“You're making everything up! Can't I have an opinion without you twisting my intent or making a damn spectacle out of it?!” He gritted his teeth and _so_ wished he hadn't given Griffon what he'd been goading for. “Stop being an ass for once!”

“What're you gonna do, sic your _boyfriend_ on me?” A tease, a taunt, and an insult with a musical lilt to it. Oh, he must have wanted V _furious_ or he wouldn't have trespassed where he had no business.

V was all anger in the eyes, snarling like a fiend himself, and if he was not so dreadfully embarrassed he would have retorted something stinging. “Stop that! You know that's not true!” As if aided by clairvoyance, the squabble ended abruptly when the door opened and V relinquished his hold over the cane, and fortuitously just as Griffon had been pulling on it. The sudden absence of resistance threw him up against the wardrobe, silencing him and ending their petty trouble once and for all.

Through the doorway entered Daemon, glancing curiously between warlock and familiar. “Am I interrupting something?”

“ _No_ ,” V answered solidly, recovering his composure as quickly as he was able. “We were only... _playing_ ,” he said convincingly enough, stepping toward Daemon all the while. “What did you find?” Cool, just as if nothing had happened.

Daemon crossed his arms, and for one fleeting second he hesitated as if he'd processed whatever he happened to walk into. “Nothin' much. I think we got the cleanest floor here. The rooms look gnarlier the lower you go. Didn't even bother with the second floor. Oh, but don't worry that pretty head o' yours—I found a room just for me.” He offered a simple glimmer of optimism through half a smirk.

“Up here, then?”

He answered in the affirmative, pointing out that he would be accommodated five doors down on the opposite side of the hall.

“Isn't that just fucking cozy,” Griffon complained as he roosted on the bed V would use, the cane just beside him.

V paid him absolutely no mind, and thankfully had Daemon follow suit (save for a sneer, anyway). “Since we have that settled,” V said, adequately content, “I think we ought to search the rest of the building. Before it gets dark. We might find something of use.” The odds of that were slim considering it had been about a pair of weeks since...well, _total_ _failure_. Any stragglers must have broken into the hotel at first sight and picked it clean before Griffon had ever spotted it. V did not hope to find _anything_ , but he did hope to at least distract himself trying.

He was told that he'd have been better off resting himself for the weeks' toils ahead, but ever the stubborn man, V contradicted the idea. He turned toward the bed, picked up his cane and shot his demon a parting frown before heading out the door. A silent reminder that the game was over and done with, and V had not _forgiven_ so easily after all. But a familiar's duty was to serve, and whether or not they were on good terms, Griffon ultimately joined his master—but not before he changed to dust and clung to the warlock's figure. Tensions would loosen that way, if anything.

Better that V did not have to deal with persistent nagging and whingeing. Thus, he descended the stairwell, mindful to leave his door jammed open, and quickly tired himself out yet again once they'd reached the lobby. The whole of the building was theirs to explore, in time. The first order of business was to scavenge for food, but V sought the couch from before for a deserved sit. It was true, he should have rested, even napped. But without the benefit of widespread electricity, looking for food and anything else in the eve would have been next to impossible. Better to get that all done now, then he could sleep the night away.

V afforded himself a short reprieve as Daemon stood by. There was much more to the lobby than its seats and front desk: other rooms extended from it and deeper into the hotel, such as a breakfast buffet, a gymnasium, a room...quite _empty_ save for chairs, with doors to close it off from the rest of the lobby (something that made little sense to V) on the opposite end of the building, and another walled-off area by the buffet that V had not been able to get a look at. It was rather a handsome hotel, inside and out, and the decorative medallion on the tile as well as the ivory-colored columns reaching toward the ceiling spoke of expense. More than the average, he figured, though he'd not spotted _luxury_ either. He noticed, too, that the odor from before was isolated to the ground floor for he'd smelled nothing of the sort upstairs. V's hands were folded atop his cane's grip, and his chin rested over them as he slouched offensively in a subconscious bid to rest. He'd allowed his head to go relatively empty, and while he stared at the cracks, chips and stains on the floor, he sensed his eyelids sag some. He was tired, undoubtedly, and all he could seem to muster was a deep exhale. At that moment, he appeared very unlike the man who'd left his room.

Inevitably, his attention was called. He was asked where the duo ought to go next, but V had only a shrug of shoulders for his partner. “We should find food. Hotels _have_ kitchens, don't they?”

“'Course they do. Why d'you think everyone wants room service?” There was that _joking_ sort of quality to Daemon's voice again. “You make it sound like you've never been to a hotel before.”

V had to throw his eyes in his direction then. He was not _angry_ , but… Well, it was a hard feeling to peg. Exhaling through nostrils, V looked away for his reply. “You'll find there are a lot of things I haven't done before.” V would not have pity, or curiosity, or _any_ form of reaction with the very flat tone he'd spoken through—almost as if he himself did not feel any emotion toward his own admitted inexperience with life on the whole. He was right to hope so, for Daemon said nothing to acknowledge.

Best to go now. V would not have either of them _think_ and so roused himself lackadaisically when he stood, straightened his skeleton, and stepped past Daemon after tossing him an unreadable glance. The room that looked to him like food should have been served was where he headed. As he went, the odor intensified; he wrinkled his nose at it. Something like decay, but not fresh nor old, and not quite _demonic_ , either.

Even Daemon observed it. “That smell's gettin' worse.”

Inevitably, they wound up following the trail of blood, noticing the coincidence upon entering the breakfast buffet. This section of the hotel was in absolute disarray, most everything that should have been set upon the counters and tables instead knocked to the floor—in pieces, mostly. If there had been food here, V couldn't spot a crumb of it that looked _edible_. The warlock and the demon had braced themselves, _looking_ for trouble where they thought there might not be. But looking about the debris assured V of one thing: that they would not be eating today. The fruits and juices had spoiled, the breads gone stale and moldy, insects gathered among the food, and _everything_ looked like it'd been partially chewed or trampled. The tip of his cane poked at a few broken plates, shifting and unsettling whatever was in his way in an insincere effort to clear himself a path. “I guess...we'll be going hungry today, too.” He would hear distaste from his companion. One of the juice machines was still sitting on a counter, and an orange-colored liquid seen inside of it was tempting indeed. But...could it have been any good? Carefully, V stepped over broken glass and china, unafraid of the bugs as he'd likely stepped in a mess of fruit pulp and rind, just so that he could afford himself a closer look. If the juice inside was store-bought, then perhaps it still could have been fresh.

“Would this be safe to drink?” he wondered, in search of a second opinion. As it happened, he lacked one of his own. Daemon did not help him very much in that regard, but he tried to sway V from the idea with an argument that was both solid and sound. V was inclined to agree, and he admitted it. In truth, their party was in no position to take unnecessary risks. At least... _V_ wasn't. How could he have been certain that flies hadn't gotten into the machine somehow? Sickening himself to quench his thirst did not sound wise by any stretch. Meanwhile, his familiars could sustain themselves off the carcasses they'd eat from. Humans were so much more sensitive than demons, weren't they? The kitchen remained a viable last resort, and for the purpose of investigating it he rejoined his companion so that they might cross off _that_ option as well. With the kitchen just beyond the self-service counter, they were set to wrap up quickly—only if that smell hadn't been so foul, in itself a deterrent that also roused a sense of unease and trepidation within both men. V could call it nothing but decay, _death_ , and if he were not so accustomed to that of infernal things which he'd slay, he might have thrown what little remained in his stomach up his mouth.

The evidence could not have been clearer: the smears of blood led into the kitchen, and there was more of it before the door than anywhere else in the hotel. Something died here after all, in the kitchen. V thought himself relatively brave when compared to another, but the way he hesitated many feet from the entrance spoke for itself; and, in itself, was nothing to be ashamed of. Anyone would have stalled as he did, as even Daemon did. Neither were much inclined to go on, but it was Daemon before long who deemed it wise that he should enter first. A horror awaited them behind the swinging doors, and though there was an absolute silence all throughout the building, no discernible threat, V could not help bracing himself nor could he do anything about the drumming in his chest. The suspense might have been most fatal.

He lagged behind, then, watching Daemon peer through a door cautiously opened. The small windows built into each were grimy, fogged with some condensation; no good for looking through. Why in god's name had they decided to go on with this ridiculous task? What food, touched by an odor so sickening, would either of them _want_ to eat?

Curiosity more than hunger drove them on now. “Holy shit,” Daemon swore at once. He was reduced to a mere handful of words when he'd laid eyes on whatever was deserving of his revulsion, and with his voice barely audible he could _at least_ assure V that there was, indeed, no danger in store. Daemon pulled himself from the door, a hand to his nose and mouth. “It's a body,” he said, grimacing at V and shaking his head to dissuade him from peeking in. “I don't think you wanna—”

Oh, but that warlock was _foolish_ , and he was equally stubborn to heedlessly step forward as if to spite warnings to the contrary. He needed only to push the door ajar to find what he'd been looking for. His eyes were arrested instantly, the smell more offensive than he'd counted on and he found himself reeling back with a look of mortal fear and purest disgust in his eyes. He retreated from the doors with a hand clapped over his mouth, brows furrowed more tightly than they'd ever been, eyelids squeezed shut, nausea so real coiling round his esophagus that he thought he might have thrown up in his hand, right where he stood many feet from the kitchen doors. It was a battle to control his bodily reactions, breathing hard and swallowing harder as he'd attempted to produce in his mind images that were less horrifying. He sensed Daemon join his side but ignored him and his voiced concerns. Difficult minutes passed before V could feel his viscera calm, and luckily without a mishap. Finally was he able to draw his hand away, but with brows still furrowed he stared into blue eyes that hadn't yet drifted.

After just a spell, he finally gasped, “Good lord!” His head swayed from some measure of disbelief, perhaps even _denial_. V had, at least, recovered enough of his composure to reason and dialogue. “I'm fine, I'm fine. I... My god, I've never seen anything so... _horrific_. Putrid, awful, just... _awful_. I've never seen a body look like that.” He could have done without an “I told you so” from his partner, but he'd gotten one, only worded differently, regardless. And Daemon was right: V shouldn't have looked, but now that he had he was a shaken man. Right down to his core, shaken and _changed_ , and it was easily seen in his eyes the way he looked beyond Daemon's shoulder—beyond the swinging doors, beyond anything present—and gazed distantly, thinking of and seeing that which had stamped itself onto his mind against his wish. It couldn't be helped, he was shocked. And the odor, _god above!_ Nothing had smelled worse to him, not even the decay of demonic flesh and organs. A man of his trade had seen enough of demon gore and demon death, but that which was _human_ was raw, unfamiliar, and it was _personal_. Of human skin and bone himself, he could not help to liken his own miserable existence to the cadaver in the kitchen.

V did not need more than seconds to know that on the floor near the sinks was a body still in the throes of decomposition, fluids both dry and _currently_ leaking from its orifices having stained a puddle beneath the body. Whatever clothes worn were damp, whatever skin remained turned ghastly colors and sunk into crevices, detached and slipping from connecting tissues that also were disappearing. He thought he'd seen both eyes popped from their sockets, but the wretched thing was turned face down, and it was mangled and mutilated in a way that suggested death by violence. Clearly, the body bled openly from its wounds and left blood stains all around. Though it lied still, it seemed as if alive as maggots crawled all about its surface and flies darted madly around. V had seen, too, that much of it was eaten away by the explosion of insect life, and that said life _continued_ to eat from the carcass.

Never had V seen a human body in such a state. The ones he'd found were either fresh kills or skeletons, and he'd not made express attempts to change that. It was very much a different thing to see rotting human flesh on television than to see it in person, to smell it, to expose one's mind to the very real horrors of mortality that a man of his age had no need yet to entertain. But, so, it was thrust upon him by his own hand.

V was shaken—physically, through Daemon's touch—from his stupor, and he blinked his attention at the demon who spoke, at first, nonsensical words to a dazed mind. “You saw the food around 'em? They must've been scavenging out here.” Daemon described pastries and packages of cereal on the floor beside the body, and...that struck a particularly dour note. He told V of unusual bite marks on the boxes—and the insects that crawled on the pastries—as if the food had been _chomped_ into, and claw marks on the cardboard scratched also on the tile. Oh, but what a bleak picture. V already had the image in his mind and it sank his heart.

“The demon that attacked,” he figured, “must have gone after their food. I don't think there would have been much of the body left to attract so many bugs if the demon wanted...human meat.”

“So a demon _mauls_ the poor bastard to death and doesn't even bother to fuckin' eat 'em. Now _that's_ sad.”

V didn't have a reply, but agreed wholeheartedly with the assessment. Daemon had a way with words, sometimes; and though he'd put it crudely, it was as close to the truth as either of them could have gotten. They'd spotted countless human bodies drained by the Qliphoth, but this was death on a _natural_ scale, and it had been the most grisly either of the pair were likely to see. _Damn it_. V had put in so much effort to _stop_ losses of life. He roamed the city to help what few survivors remained; he slayed countless demons and hindered the infernal tree in whatever way he was able _for_ those who could not do it themselves, and to find that still no matter what he did, he would come across a fresh or weeks-old human carcass and it would devalue every effort. It made him feel like he'd only been wasting his time, his energy, pointlessly delaying the inevitable. Because, with Red Grave being the epicenter of everything that's happened, no human life was safe here. Realistically, none should have lived as long as they had. But luck, and V, had to intervene. And maybe that had been for the worse…

He hated to think the cadaver in the kitchen was someone he may have aided before. He could not bear the thought, not now. The smell lingered in his nostrils, in his consciousness, and he was uneasy for it. His nerves would not agree with him any more than they had, and given his absolute refusal to step anywhere near the kitchen again, he knew it was time to leave. Even the buffet, with its insect inhabitants, was an unwelcoming place to V and his party.

He and Daemon determined to abandon their search of the kitchen; they turned from it to walk in the direction they'd come, appetites dashed. They proceeded silently, each brooding in his own way as they entered the lobby. Even if they had looked in cupboards, pantries and refrigerators, the odds were good that perishables spoiled, and all the rest was picked clean by scavengers that had come before them. V would have put money on not even finding a tin of beans, and he wouldn't even care if he had. He wouldn't have eaten it. With his appetite virtually decimated upon spying a maggot-infested corpse, there wasn't the slightest desire to eat though he knew it was necessary to make the effort. But all the same, against his better judgment, he quit his search, tired from the pointlessness, the dejection, from having himself nearly sickened to his stomach, and from general days-long wear.

Prompt was the warlock to seek a couch. He _needed_ a reprieve, he needed to settle, and he all but collapsed onto his backside as he took a seat on the very same couch slashed in many places.

He reclined, giving all his weight to the wood and upholstery beneath him. He hadn't the mind for much aside from his own ill feeling. Though he thought himself incapable of speech, he felt his lips move. “I need a moment.” A response was not expected and he hadn't received one. Daemon stood beside his couch, crossing arms, exhaling audibly at times as though he had his own trouble. V was spared any bother while he sat like a dead weight, again staring into an infinite beyond. With the odor of putrefaction minimal here, his stomach could settle itself. For a moment he wasn't sure what he was doing anymore, he wondered why he should stay at all if he would find neither food nor sleep here—because he doubted he would get to sleep at all, knowing a cadaver decayed below him. And it might have been someone he'd seen alive once. That was the worst of it. He did not need evidence as the _possibility_ was more than enough to stir distaste toward both the circumstances and himself. For whatever reason manufactured within, V was part of the problem. It was impossible to say how, or why, but such were his feelings. These, however, would remain unspoken. As he recuperated in his seat, he was informed that his companion would stray a little to poke around some more. V allowed him, indifferent.

Try as he might to put the terrible memory out of his mind, he couldn't accomplish it. The scene left such an impression upon him that he dare _not_ forget it. It was against his own will that his mind would torment him this way, but he was feeble beneath the powers of his psyche, of his trauma and his guilt, his very sticky memory. And even as he sat in introspection, trying halfheartedly to best himself, he gazed across the damaged tile to study the front desk. An idea wormed into his brain in enough time, and with the power of sudden inspiration the warlock pushed his tired bones off of the couch to walk toward the object of his attention. He really would _try_ to get his mind off what he'd seen and what it implied. It had nothing to do with him, anyway…

V urged his spirit onward, moving behind the desk to search for room keys. Beyond the shock that came with the discovery of human death, there was another, a very _different,_ thing that occupied a space in his mind. Things that were personal were almost always the anchors that dragged V down into the metaphorical drink. He was depressive, he was thoughtful, he was distracted by all the things that bothered him and he could do little else but look vexed. Certainly not the first time this had happened, so the while he explored the counter he switched his train of thought for no good reason. It wasn't like him to hold anything against his only friends, his _familiars_ , but Griffon had drilled into his head an idea that shouldn't have ever been there. It was all a joke to that demon, but to V it was far from a laughing matter. To be accused so brashly of things that they _both_ knew where falsehoods was more insulting than it might have been initially perceived. It called into question V's ability to judge, and for a short moment he really _did_ wonder if he'd made a mistake where his trust was concerned. But he knew he didn't care to protect anyone's feelings, he didn't care that Griffon believed he was being naive to trust in a _stranger_. V knew what he'd been doing and why, he was clear with himself on his motives; and if his familiars couldn't accept that, they'd have to conform regardless. They'd just have to. And Daemon—things were clear to him too, weren't they? V, in his thoughtful stupor, hadn't realized he'd forgotten to memorize the number on his door, and he didn't know Daemon's. _Blast it_. A useless endeavor on his part once again. However, there were very few key cards on hand to begin with. May that console him. His effort rewarded him with his own deflation. He tried the employee door, but it was locked and he found no key to that, either.

Honestly, _fuck this hotel_.

V was frustrated now. He couldn't help the frown on his brow when he removed himself from the front desk to pace about the lobby, stepping toward the broken glass doors to peek outside. But, now, he understood what the stains on the floor were all about: most of them were tracks, once wet with blood, seeming to _leave_ the hotel from the trail he followed earlier. A grim reminder, another sinking feeling, and he sighed. Had that demon been alive today? Was it scavenging for scavenged food somewhere out in the city? Oh, how he wished he could have kept his mind off of it. Well… Out the front doors he spied rain clouds. It was about time for a shower, too.

 _He_ was due for one.

“You ready to leave already?”

He'd been standing too close to the threshold when Daemon's voice interrupted his thoughts. V was only a mite startled, turning quickly to issue his denial. “No, I was only looking,” he said, peeling from the doors to approach his company. His mood was low, his face a match, and the quality of his voice left no room for mistake. “If I'm ready for anything, it's to go upstairs to sleep for an eternity.”

“How about lookin' at somethin' first?” Daemon was sober in manner, and V could tell from appearances alone that Daemon had been feeling for the sorcerer's enthusiasm (or lack thereof).

Still, it was a curious enough thing. He hadn't counted on Daemon finding anything in the slightest to report. There were only seconds of silent hesitation between them until ultimately V sighed his agreement. “Fine. I guess it wouldn't hurt.”

Daemon gave him feeble assurance. But it seemed not to have mattered as he had V on his heels anyway. They had to walk past the kitchen and buffet again, and seeing the swinging doors was enough to cause V to seize up, and he nearly halted altogether while his eyes glued to the doors. He almost refused to go on, but by Daemon's encouragement found the will, or the tenacity, to continue behind him. V gave the area as wide a berth as he could manage, covering his nostrils with the back of a hand. He could tear his eyes away. The duo walked for a handful of minutes with the soft clicking of V's cane against the tile, which had lent a little bit of _life_ to the general lifelessness of the world. But there was a genuine eeriness about the hotel apart from the horror in the kitchen: from how empty the rooms were to how sound seemed to echo in certain places, to how nothing moved but two misplaced bodies in an environment that lay dusty, dirty, forgotten. There was loss of life here, burglary, greed, god knew whatever else. Suddenly, a distant rumble of thunder came along to appropriately reinforce the atmosphere of all their surroundings. It served as a reminder that nature would stop for nothing—and that V and his company would have no choice but to stay in the hotel until the storm passed. Typical of the season's weather; V almost wondered where it'd been the last few days.

Daemon was unprompted when he reported on what other rooms he'd given cursory glances, including the conference room for which V previously had no name, and the gymnasium which yielded equal disappointment in terms of resources. With already so much weighing on thin shoulders, the warlock wanted to consider _nothing_ else. Simply put, he didn't have a care in the world for whatever use the hotel might have provided. A bed, and soap and water, were all V wanted anymore. The spirit of melancholy possessed him now, and for his mind there would be little else to chew on but his own lot.

The elements _or_ V's introspection notwithstanding, they entered the next room which fit snugly into a recess, closed off by walls and glass doors that had also broken, though with markedly less violence. To V's surprise, the architects had somehow fit a small watering hole in the hotel. Daemon flashed him a satisfied grin, suddenly spirited, spreading his arms out as though to show off his discovery. “Check it out,” he offered. “What're the chances, right?”

V did indeed inspect their surroundings. Though in disarray, the room was old in styling and boasted wooden furnishings. They would have walked into utter darkness were it not for a handful of emergency lights above the bar and doors. V could see well enough, and slowly he stepped across the hardwood floor while his companion sneaked behind the bar. Oh, but so much glassware and equipment had been mistreated, and by the sound of Daemon's footsteps pieces of glass littered the floor and _crunched_ further underfoot. Bottles had broken, their contents spilling in spots, and the room possessed an undoubtedly alcoholic odor. At least much of the floor was dry, and while V was far less invested in the discovery, he noticed that Daemon's mood had brightened and thought it fair to entertain him for a spell (and to distract _himself_ ). Largely silent even as Daemon flashed him one of those infuriatingly cocksure smirks, planting his hands atop the bar with a grandiose motion as though to take full command of the counter. V noted the gleam in his eyes, even in the dim light, and for this instance would play along if only somewhat. As he approached, he set his sights on a bar stool that had been left upright and took his seat. _Relief_.

“What'll you have, swee'heart? Name your poison,” the demon, though playful, purred with all of his confidence.

Was he...meaning to cheer up a low fellow? “I'd rather not have to do that,” V answered with little animation, and by the implication of poison was even _less_ amused. However, he was not blind to the intention (if that had been the case at all). Rather than stew, he would try, _try_ , to spare what he had of his sense of humor. Being as temperamental as he was should have soured things for everyone in contact with him, but the man before him had fortitude. At least it was what he'd _showed_.

Daemon didn't give him grief for spoiling the game. Rather, his demeanor endured. A chortle he gave, a milder smirk, and there was another change in him, like a touch of nostalgia. “This kinda takes me back...'bout a month ago.”

“And what happened a month ago?”

“Y'really don't remember? Like… I was standin' somethin' like this, and you came in outta nowhere, walked up to the bar, I said hello—”

“You mean when you accused me of looking for trouble?” V erroneously characterized the experience deliberately, but only to the smallest degree. He was about as playful as the best of them— _look at that, the warlock's lightening up already_ —though his reply brought a pout to his companion's mouth.

“I was just _teas_ _ing_ you, swee'heart.”

V had a small huff for that, the smallest upward pinch to one corner of his lips. He shook his head, altogether dismissing Daemon's concern. “ _I_ _know_.” He allowed a small delay for Daemon to recover his humor. “I can't believe you'd think about such a thing.” In all honesty, V couldn't quite believe that _he_ remembered. To recall swiftly what Daemon meant along with a detail or two was...presumptuous? Inappropriate? _E_ _mbarrassing_? There might have been a word for it, but V could only follow a feeling. That entire experience should have been long behind them now. “And here I was hoping I'd forget all about that place.”

“Aw. Aren't you the least bit sentimental?” Feigning injury, Daemon whined and gave him a sappy look.

“Not over a strip club, no. Honestly, to think I'd been so desperate…” It was mortifying to think back on, but at the time V could fixate on nothing else. To find a lead he would have gone to the depths of Hell itself—or so he'd liked to have believed. Little had changed since then, he found, but there was at present a change of a different sort: one in his mood. He saw a twinkle in blue eyes and the demon's facade immediately fell. Really, it did V no good to be so changeable in mood.

Daemon's forearms folded atop the bar and he leaned closer to grin in his smarmy way. “I wasn't talkin' about the _club_ , pretty boy.”

V found himself becoming shy, drawing backward almost subconsciously for space. He'd known Daemon was harmless, but… “I see.” He would not commit to an answer, but he did privately consider the implication. For that, he dropped his gaze to the wooden counter. Did Daemon really think that night in May was worth remembering? Had it _meant_ something to him? V had done him no good, only made his life more dangerous than it needed to be; and while that had been Daemon's decision, V _did_ accept him in the end. V led him astray, and he would take him even to the top of the Qliphoth. It was unjust. Never should he have looked for help, never should he have told Daemon what he knew. But here they were, reliving memories in apparently distinct ways. At the end of the day, V could see that things were different to Daemon. He needn't speculate, he needn't ask; and he didn't _want_ to. V wasn't about to peer inside a partner's mind when he had too much going on in his own.

Besides, the demon was only being a tease, wasn't he? With that look on his face, V figured there was nothing more to it. In fact, he more or less chided himself for reading into it all. Thinking too much again. “Why should that be anything worth remembering?” Eyes met again.

“I never would've thought talkin' to you was gonna lead to all of _this_.”

“An unlucky set of circumstances,” V admitted. He expressed enough remorse to be discernible, so he would not come off as insensitive and _selfish_ to the affected party. “That's all I can say… I never meant to drag anyone into—”

Daemon waved his hand. “Don't worry 'bout it, V. It's not that bad. 'Sides, I like the company most of all.” His expression was infallible and so was his determination.

“Why would you? I've gotten you involved in quite the mess. Besides, I'm no one. Nothing special.”

“You and me both. We're no _two_.” A wider smile and he was amused, even snickering at the poor play on words. Though he was tame even in this, he grinned, and...lifted his brows when it appeared he'd gotten even V to laugh.

It was a huff, a chortle, but all the same a smile formed over V's mouth. It was an involuntary reaction, but a joke so childish and stupid was also so effortless in restoring much of V's better humor. A surprise that his mood should improve rather abruptly, but there was nothing for it and V would willingly accept the change. There was little to enjoy in brooding, and he seemed to look at Daemon with the subtlest touch of gratitude. His voice, then, became soft, light, sincere. “You're funny.”

“ _Really?_ ” Pleasantly surprised, Daemon could not help staring, _wondering_.

“You have your moments.”

“That's gotta be the nicest thing y'ever said about me, _pretty boy_.” He grinned as if he'd heard music to his ears. “I'll take it.”

Brows furrowed as V worried suddenly over his conduct. “Is it? You mean I've just been rude to you all this time?” If Daemon's bar was set so low, that could have only been due to V's negligence. He thought he'd been fair enough, praising when need be… But how was he to know? The times he'd given anyone a compliment were far and few; he might have confused good manners with genuine praise.

“You haven't been 'rude', V. I just haven't heard that sorta thing from you before.” With a shrug of shoulders, Daemon veered off of that path to return to what they'd started with. It seemed he was reluctant, perhaps _incapable_ of explaining his position. But he was not through reminiscing, moving right along as fluidly as was afforded the pair. V would have to suffer those memories. “Still, I won't forget that look on your face when you came in. So serious, anxious, and _oh-so_ mysterious.”

Did he intentionally leave out the air of nervousness? V remembered his feelings that night, and he thought they made him look the proper fool in that cesspool of sin. Surrounded by predators, fanged beasts he knew could easily tear him apart. He _was_ nervous, even if he'd done his damnedest to hide it. No doubt the wolf saw, _smelled_ it, even. “Now you're just trying to embarrass me,” V argued, frowning, but feigning injury. “Still...” he continued after a swift recovery, “I was surprised that you believed me, that you would at least take me at my word. When everyone else looked at me with skepticism or had outright dismissed me... _you_ didn't.” The whole of his demeanor changed, a new face surfacing to cover the old one and, with it, a different light in green eyes. Something, perhaps, like warmth in those jewels. He was all sincerity, and spoke even with a quiet sort of regard— _appreciation_. “Even I had my doubts. I was afraid I'd gotten it wrong, and I would have made such a fool out of myself. I'd have wasted your time, and Dante's, but...looks like I didn't.” That was nothing to be thankful for. V would have much preferred to have misinterpreted his vision, to avoid _all_ that resulted of his foresight. It would have preserved lives and livelihoods, and _he_ would not have become dead broke as a result of his visit with Dante. People would have their homes, the city its infrastructure, the country its economy, its neighbors their safety—but none of it was V's doing. Whether he'd known ahead of time or not, the Qliphoth would have broken through inevitably. _Nothing_ would have been capable of stopping it. He only had to live with the knowledge of it, but that was hard enough on a man and he did not _once_ wish it had happened to anybody else.

V had a wistful smile for his companion, exhaling quietly as he attempted to move on from the past. A troublesome thing, that: never keen on letting go. Some people were likewise not keen on getting away. That was the point of reminiscing, wasn't it? In truth, no one wanted to forget. It's why Daemon said what he did, and looked so fond about it, and even now had something of a warm smile to impart the sorcerer. V knew he did not mean any insult. That was the other surprising thing to him: that Daemon was simply kind. From him, V would hear something modest in reply, a casual claim of a duty that was nonexistent. V had never obligated him, but Daemon still made the choice to follow. Whether or not that was the sound thing to do remained to be seen, but so far...it was good that he'd come.

Conversation did not stretch beyond hopes expressed for the future, and suddenly the talkative demon grew quiet and, seemingly, more reflective than he had been when he started. They both quieted, really, and as V considered giving proper thanks for the help continually offered, he watched Daemon move back from the counter, rubbing palms together as he bent at the waist to peek beneath the bar.

V was left idle, a little inadequate with feelings beginning to mix, but pleasant in countenance all the same. He wondered about the sudden, dare he think it, _bashfulness_ of his cheeky friend. Daemon was not the type to lose nerve, shy away, avoid conversation with V from what was observed of him. But V had every confidence that it was nothing to worry over: just as Daemon was presumptuous and obnoxious, he could too be distant and thoughtful. _Friend, that's right._ V grabbed his cane with every intention of descending from the stool, but he remembered he was tired. More than when he first sat, as it happened, and less motivated to leave than he assumed he was. But boredom was a strong enough stimulant, and V felt it would beat him into retreating for the stairwell. Prolonging the inevitable, he curiously watched his fellow with a quirk of a brow. “What are you doing?”

“Lookin'.”

“Daemon,” V sighed, watching him crouch, “there's nothing we can eat or drink here. I'm tired of trying. In fact...I'm ready to go upstairs.”

The storm outside closed, marked by a louder clap of thunder. The elements would bear down on their hideaway soon enough, which might serve V with an opportunity to take in all the rest he could manage. The month's toils wore on him, and he groaned inwardly at the thought of the weeks that remained. It was his most sincere hope that Nero had been putting every effort into coming back _strong_. There was a yawn to have come upon the tired sorcerer, and he covered his mouth as per habit. To his surprise, he found Daemon emerging with no want for enthusiasm. To V, a plastic bottle of water was presented, and with it the courtesy of a barkeep.

“This might do you some good. I'll just put it on your tab.” Though he played, there was no joke behind the appearance of a drink of water. Actual, _clean_ water.

“I can't believe you found this!” V's eyes were wide as he mindlessly grabbed the bottle to examine it. Oh, he'd been parched all along and the sight of its contents aroused a monstrous craving in him. It was unopened, seemingly untouched, and could not have been more than a month old. _Well_ a time from its date of expiry. V had to look at Daemon, to ensure that he was allowed to drink from it as though it belonged to another. V was not only encouraged, but Daemon insisted. _He_ should have had something to drink, himself, but…

The cap was twisted open, the seal broken, and eagerly did V drink with his head almost fully bent back. He just happened to make vanish half the water, between a breath, with graceless gulps. Once he was finally through, he had to exhale his satisfaction. Drinking was suddenly such a workout. There was some life returned to him, body and mind and soul, and the eyes that were dim were again bright and sharp. A little color bled into his skin, and that was always a beneficial thing for someone so sickly looking. To Daemon he smiled, saying, “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.”

There was that fondness about him again, a smile both on his face and in his eyes. It inspired a pause, a moment of voiceless hesitation in V, and in his ears his heart was loud. He chalked it up to exertion to be done with it; replenishing his fluids excited him, too.

Oh, this _friend_ was so selfless, so self-sacrificial. He really shouldn't have deprived himself... V's smile had died away by now. Discomfort and embarrassment shook him awake, reminded him of his pride, and like a child caught doing something he shouldn't have he promptly blinked down for his cane. It was seized with vigor and the warlock removed himself from the stool, intent on removing himself from the room in full. Bottle in hand, he announced his move to the fourth story, and turned to leave Daemon with all the freedom to do what he liked.

The weather broke then, or had _already_ broken as rainfall was seen beyond the double doors to the front lobby. Petrichor was a welcome scent, soothing V's olfactory nerve as the sound of the rain soothed his heart. It fell eagerly and uninterrupted; and given the thunder heard previously, there was every indication that a storm was upon them.


	2. The Storm

V moved decisively past the kitchen, his heart steeled against the horror that decayed behind its doors. Though his body was worn, his brain was alive with activity. It gave him some trouble, cluttering every free space with thoughts of his behavior, his feelings, and the only other man alive for miles. But V tried to quiet them, and in focusing on his trip upstairs adopted a heavy frown that none could see as none were ahead of him. He knew Daemon tailed, so hopelessly lost on his own like a pup, but brought up the rear of the party instead of heading it. V would not need his help this time, however, as he was already assured of his security within the building. Moreover, he trusted himself to climb the three flights of stairs in spite of his weariness and _make it_. His body was not yet useless to him. Without too much effort he ascended to the fourth floor, more than ready and willing to shed every care and collapse onto his designated bed. But he had to walk there, and all around were the sounds of the storm, and behind him was the demon not quite out of his mind. His bones and muscles could have groaned if they'd a voice, but the emptiness of his stomach was perhaps louder than even the clap of thunder to have so suddenly sent vibrations throughout the building—and the windows in many of the rooms had been _broken_.

The weather sounded like it'd gotten inside the hotel, and it had.

Upon reaching his room, he found droplets wetting the beige carpet and the forest-green curtains blowing in. The rain and wind drove diagonally, hitting his wing of the building. It was suddenly an unpleasant task before him, to find rest in these conditions. A man who likes the sound of rain does not typically enjoy the wailing of wind and the dampening of his room. Nevertheless, V stepped inside. Observant, silent, preoccupied.

“You gonna be okay, pretty boy?”

Behind him, naturally, leaning an arm on the door frame was the demon who could not leave him alone. He had, at the very least, the tact to keep himself outside of the room; but his hand was on the knob and pushed the door open to afford himself a look at the room, and V. Concerned, was he? V would show him.

He stood the water bottle on the bed furthest from the window and moved his cane from one hand to the other, turned to face Daemon, and said, “Why wouldn't I be? I suggest you go to your room and sleep while you can.” He stepped over, placing his own hand over the door with the frown that hadn't tired of his face yet. “I won't be able to open this door from the outside, so I'm leaving it the way I'd found it. Now, I think I might try to clean myself up, so _you_ best keep away from my room or I'll have you bleeding out of a multitude of holes. Understand?” The handle on his cane was used to push against Daemon's chest.

There was the fleeting glimmer of a _look_ on the fiend's face, but he gracefully bowed out. “Sure,” he relented, suspiciously satisfied. Lo and behold, that _easy_ , knowing smile claimed its place over his mouth, and in his eyes it was reflected. But he pushed himself off the door frame, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and left V with an invitation to call on him should any need arise.

_Insufferable._

The door jammed on the suitcase once it was freed, the small opening through the threshold a threat to privacy and peace of mind, but this was the way of things for now. Discontent was breathed out V's nostrils, but he wisely moved on as he drew toward the sink built into the kitchenette. Out of sheer curiosity he turned on the faucet, and his mood improved upon seeing running water. How unexpected given the circumstances, but he would take advantage before worse turned to worst. Demons were shed from his skin, all but one, and while Shadow leaped onto the bed her master would sleep in, lying on her side as a cat would, Griffon seized a spot beside her. He had no liking for the sudden draftiness of the room nor the cold rain coming in. V tossed his cane wherever he could find an empty space among them, sighing a vexed sigh. He would reclaim his bottle, however, and set it upon the counter by the microwave oven. As he turned to inspect the bathroom, Griffon began to speak.

“You're not really thinking of using the water in this place, are you?”

V observed the towel rack, empty, but spied one large towel crumpled up over the toilet seat.

“I mean, 'cause water treatment hasn't been a thing for weeks.”

A clap of thunder drowned out half of that sentence, but V was altogether preoccupied peeking behind the shower curtain, assessing what he could of the tub without the benefit of light. He _supposed_ it was clean enough, and by the sight of a bottle of complimentary shampoo sitting atop the shower shelf, he surmised it hadn't been emptied when it was used. A bar of soap sat on the soap dish, mildly used yet practically new. Oh, but there was a mosquito buzzing in his ear all the while and it spoiled his focus…

“Hello? Earth to V, are you _hearin'_ me?”

_Irritating._

“I'm trying not to,” the warlock rasped, emerging from the bathroom with a renewed frown to tired features. He did not look at Griffon on approach but sat on a small corner of the bed to free his feet of his sandals. _God_ , what a feeling it was when they came off! He'd never had to walk so much in his life, or at least in recent memory, and it hurt to get his hands around his feet when he thought to test his circulation. He could barely see what he was doing thanks to the darkened cloud cover, or how unclean the carpeting might have been in this specific spot, but down the pads of his feet went to rest on the floor, very cool to the touch.

“Huh? Why the hell not? _Well_? _Hellooo_?!” Try as he might, he could not get V to respond. Shadow was equally unresponsive, even less interested, and not at all involved. “For fuck's sake—if it's one thing I can't stand, it's the fucking silent treatment,” he went on complaining, so rapidly roused to irritation. “Don't tell me you're _mad._ ” He tried to get a look at V, moving as close to the edge of the bed without falling to the floor just to peer at the man's face, his stance confrontational.

The urge to ignore the demon was all too strong, but to snap back in retort was perhaps an urge even stronger. V had been doing nothing but idling since he sat, indeed _hearing_ his familiar while considering what to do about him, about _himself_. He had his eyes downcast as the wind chilled his bony frame, and it seemed the temperature in the room dipped rather drastically. Sleeping here would be...difficult. He almost reconsidered attempting to shower. _Almost_. But the need for some semblance of cleanliness was great, and it'd been virtually impossible thus far to groom. He wanted to be concerned with his person, but emotional injuries prevailed at the moment. It'd been more of a bruising than anything, in truth, but it still left its sting: his dearest friend sought to make light of both independence and insecurities, and to toy with ideas that brought into question his ability to reason, his self-control. Most jokes V could tolerate, but a few would land blows on tender spots. And Griffon knew that, he knew his warlock in and out, and _still_ he had riled V to this point. So, in spite of his mood, V turned to Griffon to speak his mind. The hardness in his eyes was mixed with self-conflict, but he was nonetheless resolved to correct his familiar once and for all. “Are you really so surprised? You questioned my will, you doubted my resolve, and you challenged my judgment. You _mocked_ my decision and totally twisted my intent. You expect me to forget?”

“It was a joke! I was messin' with ya!”

“That's worse, deliberately playing with my emotions when you know damned well how I feel about those things.”

“All right, so I stepped outta line,” admitted Griffon, finally realizing that he'd win no argument today, “I got carried away. This one's on me. I'll watch my beak next time. Cool? Are we cool now?”

The fiendish thing sounded so desperate to make amends—or to rid himself of the inconvenience. Didn't it seem like he was _perpetually_ inconvenienced? V happened to be “high maintenance” for him anyway, but that was unrelated to the problem. Another growl of thunder, distant, but this time preceded by a flash of lightning. All the while, a shake of the head and a scoff was V's to answer with. He looked away from Griffon, smirking in spite of himself. “We shouldn't be, but we both know I can't hold a grudge to save my life.”

“So that's a yes. Awesome.”

“There's always a first time, though,” added V, shooting Griffon a scurrilous eye. When that demon started to complain again, the warlock pushed himself off the bed. He hadn't the energy for this, not now. Griffon simply had to learn how to wait. “But...I _will_ think about it,” he dryly teased on his way to the bathroom, and _that_ door was one he would close and lock. So he'd chosen to disregard Griffon's warnings, and his own qualms, and attempt to shower. It might have been the stupidest idea he'd had all day.

He would have to navigate the dark with touch and intuition only, and trust that it would be safe to drop his clothes on the floor. The space was so small, he hadn't room to leave them elsewhere. With his shoes removed, he had only three articles remaining to shed. First was his coat, and _that_ he could slip off easily once the laces were undone. He was nervous to do that here, however, in a hotel in the dark, with demons unfazed by the weather and crawling about outside, and with a demon he couldn't have known all that well _inside_ , smiling his smiles and giving his compliments unprompted. And though the door was locked, and his intentions made plain to the creature somewhere beyond the hotel room's door, he could not stop his subconscious from worrying, anticipating, _imagining_ what that diabolical man would say if he had the chance. But that would never come while V had anything to say about it. So, he freed from his person the leather garment; next was his belt, also easily pulled off, and next…

Well, he'd undressed eventually. He turned on the water eventually, and after wasting a precious moment in pointless wait for the water to warm, he stepped into the tub eventually. Yes, it was his stupidest idea to date, and doubly so because he _knew_ he didn't have a hope for hot water. Suddenly, gooseflesh arose from the frigid water pelting his body, with it an inability to breathe or to think. V could do naught but gasp, shaking like a leaf about ready to fall from its branch. But he was fool enough not to take the coward's way out, instead enduring for the sake of cleanliness. It was a higher calling. It was also torturous. Thankfully, he was quick to wash his hair and even quicker to wash his body. He was unable to keep still the moments he had to stand stationary, ducking out of the spray repeatedly, every tremor making his work harder than it had to be. He hadn't paid mind to the roars of thunder when they came, and they were louder than the first. In time too little to have done a thorough job, the shower was silenced and the curtain pulled away. _Finished_.

Even if the only towel available to him had been used, it was grabbed and pressed to his chest in a desperate search for warmth. Like a dog's his hair dripped heavily, neglecting it to dry off every other inch of his body. He would rub the towel against himself almost feverishly, attempting to generate as much friction against his own skin as tolerable. Such effort was paltry, however, for his skin would cool again instantaneously—and cold droplets from his hair would land on his body, sending unpleasant jolts up his spine. There are none so blind as those who do not see. V happened to be twice the fool for _seeing_ and still feigning blindness.

All he could do was privately curse, complaining of himself and of the cold biting him so relentlessly. But he managed to take the moisture off his body, and most out of his hair, and he was fast in collecting his clothes in the hope they would bring him some warmth. Residual body heat clung to them, _dirty_ garments dirtying him all over again once secured over his person. The comfort afforded was small, too small, and suddenly he'd felt more miserable now than he remembered ever being. For better or worse, his task was completed and he exited the bathroom in remarkably little time. Dry and cleaner than when he'd entered, all dressed up, and accomplished, V could rejoin his familiars and set to the task of resting.

Sadly, the poor thing clapped his hands atop his bare arms, assailed by the draftiness of the room which had only become colder, wetter, and darker while he'd been occupied. Hugging his lean, lank frame afforded him nothing. Petrified he stood in front of the bathroom, shivering and making every effort to keep his teeth from chattering. _How embarrassing_ —he knew he couldn't clench his jaw that tightly.

The rattling of his bones did not go unheard, but all it took to know something was amiss was a single glance. Griffon greeted, “Are you _shaking_?”

“Don't ask stu-stupid questions.”

“Am I gonna have to say 'I told you so' every time you don't listen to me?”

V glared his reply, and very appropriately remembered that he was angry with his friend. “Sh-shut up and move over,” he said as he felt a sudden aversion to the room he was to occupy. It was the wind, the cold, and his own distaste for everything made manifest. He uselessly rubbed at his arms. With Griffon silent, _for once_ , and scooting closer toward the opposite side of the bed, V made his shambling way over. He avoided his sandals but had to pick up his cane to lean it against the wall. The poor thing could hardly move, yet here he was, soldiering on, making his best effort to lie down and sleep. It might have been early in the day, but the bad weather threw a shade of night-like darkness over the building. Shadow scooted as well, leaving her master the room to crawl under the sheets and find his comfort. He said nothing as he climbed in, clothed, pulled the sheets up and hugged them tightly to his body. Thanks to his familiars, there was a bit of warmth to the bed on the spot he'd chosen to curl over, but it was insufficient for his still-trembling skeleton. At that moment it didn't matter whether or not the sheets were used and the pillowcase unwashed; V needed something soft to lie on, he needed _comfort_ after weeks of toil and impractical resting conditions. His time spent playing savior to survivors and slayer of demons made him miss his bed more than he ever thought possible, and that was saying something given his bed, his entire bedroom, was utterly inadequate for a man his age. But, god, did he wish he could have been _home_ right now. At the very least he would be protected from the elements; here, he was not. This mattress was _heavenly_ , however—or it _would_ have been if he wasn't freezing to death.

Between he and Griffon no words would be exchanged. All demons occupying the bed were quiet and tranquil, but V, who curled so much like a millipede that his head just about abandoned the pillow altogether, was uncomfortable, annoyed, and wide awake. He would let out a whimper every now and then, shrinking deeper into himself whenever the wind blew hard enough or some moisture fell on his covered body. Shadow herself was not wholly asleep for she shifted against his back to drape her massive head over his shoulder. The warmth of her body was welcome, but she would have to lie on him completely to make any real difference. V didn't fuss. His familiars deserved their rest, even Griffon—it wouldn't have been fair to be exacting of them even in their hours of rest. Fatigue caught up with him, though, and that was something he was thankful for as he'd felt his consciousness lightening. Surprisingly enough, the warlock dozed. On and off, of course. Whenever thunder roared, he was startled awake. Then he would drift again during a pause in the elemental chaos, sleeping briefly before again being rattled awake. The moments he could catch _minutes_ of sleep were equally prized as they were coveted—he noticed that his familiars did not suffer the same kind of torment.

How they could even pretend to sleep steadily was beyond him, however. It sounded like Griffon snoozed undisturbed, his breathing paced and soft where he sat away from V's damp head. Even Shadow, so alert and attentive to V's every disturbance, rested peacefully and seemed almost to snore in her feline way. The weather raged outside, thunder and lightning growing in both intensity and frequency. The rainfall was heavy and hard against the walls of the hotel room. V could only assume the bed closest to the window had gotten soaked. Every crack of thunder was a hammer to his nerves, each one too violent to ignore now. He could not help wincing as if his base instincts feared the roof would come down on him.

This was ridiculous.

Staying here had been such a _terrible_ idea, but only hindsight could have ever told him that. How long had it been since he lied down? Truthfully, he did not want to look at the clock, so he could only assume it'd not even been an hour. He was still cold, his body unaffected by the precious few moments of sleep he could snatch. While Shadow helped to warm him, the effect was only minimal, and still he shivered beneath the thin covering of bedsheets. Stubbornly he tried to keep his eyes shut, to _will_ himself to sleep. But there came a flash of lightning to give him a start right when he decided to open his eyes, and the thunder to follow was loud enough to wake the dead. It woke even the demons in the room, though they bothered for seconds before settling back. No, the room was no good. V wasn't strong enough for this. Against his better judgment (for the umpteenth time that day), he slowly freed himself from the bed he'd somewhat conformed to. The absence of his form stirred the doting shapeshifter, drawing her questioning gaze. V's tired eyes met it. He held himself, hands fast on his arms, before whispering to her. “I can't sleep like this. I might rest better downstairs. But you stay, keep my bed warm for me. I'll need it.” When he turned to leave, he was unimpeded. Shadow did not disobey him, covering his spot on the bed with all of her body to warm it all the more when he should return. He didn't even bother to put on his shoes.

The cool air that blew chilled the top of his head. Even washing his hair had been a mistake. But he descended the stairwell, freed from the cold gusts while he made his way to the ground floor. Were it not for the emergency lights, he'd have likely taken a spill, it was so dark. But he was blessed to have made it all the way down, and the smell of decay was unfortunately the first to greet him. Not even the inexhaustible precipitation could drown out the stench of death. Nevertheless, V walked away from all rooms to step into the lobby. To his surprise, it hadn't been as dreadfully dark as expected—or unoccupied. There, on a familiar couch, was a familiar demon in man's clothing. V could make him out sufficiently in the darkness. He'd only been sitting, awake, apparently minding his own. V could have sworn he'd gone to his own room, to rest as advised…

As quietly as he went, Daemon sensed him. “V?”

“I thought you'd be in your room,” came the answer in the dark. He approached, but paused feet from the couch.

“I thought you'd be in yours.”

“So did I,” the warlock huffed, mildly amused at his luck. His hands were still glued to his arms, tremors gripped him anew. “What are you doing out here?” He spared a glance at the entrance, noting the squalls upon the street just outside. The tiled floor received a thin covering of rainwater, restless as droplets struck the growing puddle and winds pushed it farther in. Any more of this and the ground floor was sure to flood. Even here, in a space so much bigger than a standard hotel room, the sound of thunder was nigh deafening.

“Nothin'. Just...nothin'. Keepin' an eye out, I guess. What about you, though? You look cold.”

His answer had not been a definite one. V might have asked him more, but he was silenced before he even opened his mouth. Daemon looked at him with a furrowed brow, making clear his concern when he made it painfully obvious to them _both_ what V's problem was. All the while, he sat forward, elbows on knees, fingers lacing before him.

It didn't gladden V to be found so transparent, and he had to fight himself to admit that which was already known. “I took a shower in cold water.” His expression was dry.

“ _Seriously_?”

That look on his face—one that smacked of judgment—did not give V any encouragement, and it was only good for worsening his mood. “Oh, it was worth it,” he countered with a rare sprinkling of sarcasm. “I think you'd benefit from the same.” That was meant to bite, and Daemon pressed his mouth into a fine line for it.

“You oughta be in bed, V. You're gonna get yourself sick like this.”

“Believe me, I'm better off down here, if you don't mind.” V was too obstinate to even seek permission. He would have preferred to be on his own, but he wasn't about to create a scene for no good reason. Frankly, it wasn't as bad as he'd made it appear. Loneliness might have been comfortable and easy, but it was harmful in its own way, and no matter what airs he would put on, V knew in his heart of hearts that he would rather be in friendly company than in stifling silence. Tonight, at least, he preferred it.

The evening had surely come already, hadn't it? It must have.

Daemon was unrelenting, however, and invited V to sit. The argument was that he'd been on his feet too long. V didn't have it in him to contradict the notion: it was the utter truth, and all he'd sought since he arrived was rest. His body remained weary, the cold wore him down, and he found himself tempted very easily. But he suspected a little mischief from that demon, and furrowed his brow in a frown when he thought about the implication behind sitting with him. He shouldn't have, he'd shared space with him before, but… Oh, no, had Griffon's baseless concerns infected the warlock's mind? Now he found Daemon sitting back, as if relaxing, as if finding comfort. “If you want me to sit with you so just so you can—”

“ _V_ ,” came an emphatic interruption, “I promise.”

Daemon had been sincere, but more than that he was astute and intuitive. He'd already known what was on V's mind before it could expose itself, and that spoke to both careful attention and, perhaps, a deeply-rooted instinct to protect, to _shield_. Maybe, if V were any more tolerant, any more conceding, he _would_ have sat flush against that demon for the sake of accepting borrowed warmth. With nothing said, V inevitably sat with him, a foot apart, handily defeated by the invitation to rest his bones. The seat was firm, a little too firm, but comfortable nonetheless. Hands continued to massage goose-bumped skin in a paltry effort to warm himself, but he was quick to stop himself when he realized the discomfort it posed as he sat beside Daemon, who at present _did_ cause discomfort through no fault of his own. He did nothing but sit, polite and genial, while V afflicted himself with remarkable self-consciousness. As it turned out, unwelcome thoughts did make the rounds in his head.

He failed to remember he'd come down with bare feet, no doubt dirtying them in all the dust and god-knows-what on the floors he stepped on. With the tile as cold as it was, he could curl his toes now that he'd been off his feet, and it was only then that he realized he wandered without his shoes on. Stupid of him, he knew, but he let it pass without incident.

He also neglected to look in Daemon's direction, but this was deliberate. Ink-black hair hid the green eyes currently focused on the shadowed streaks of blood on the floor, feet in front of them, barring them from being read, and from catching full sight of his companion. But Daemon was not inclined to keep himself unknown, so before long opened his mouth to rob V of his silence.

“Can I show you something?”

It was quietly posed, surprisingly audible amid the roaring and shattering of the elements.

V looked at him then, knowing better than to act in defiance. He needed only to turn his head _just_ , to peek at Daemon from behind the cover of his hair. There was palpable curiosity in his eyes, but mixed with it was a degree of insecurity. “What?”

“Well, it's more like I wanna do you a favor.”

The imagination was a wild thing when supplied with enough fuel—or a lack thereof, given the minimal detail V had to work with. But this was paranoid of him; this was not his way and it confused him to be as ill at ease as this. His familiar's work, no doubt, finally leaving its desired effect on a man already emotionally shaken, tired, and trembling with cold. It wasn't just, but V fell victim to unfounded fears all the same. He chastised himself for thinking too much. Still, his front would not crumble beneath the weight of his insecurities: he maintained as much of a composed facade as he was able. “I guess th-that depends on the favor.”

“Trust me.”

Well...why wouldn't he? He's trusted Daemon this long, for several weeks now, and he knew it was only foolishness that had him recently uncertain. V shrugged his shoulders, asking simply, “What is it?”

Daemon seemed to know that words would not help him here. He would demonstrate his intent when he offered his left hand, suspending it between them, and conjuring from his palm a lone little flame. “This,” he explained. He looked at V then, subtly wondering.

The warmth radiating from that one flame was _good_. In all the chill of the lobby, heat was doubly felt. Heat was doubly _desired_. V's eyes were for a moment fixed on the orange glow, flickering mysteriously as fire was wont to do. This one needed no kindling for Daemon was its source. Now there was every urge in V to draw near and take from his flames. But he was rather rigid in his seat and, so, looked at Daemon instead of moving. “What is that for?” he had to ask, rather stupidly.

Lightning lit up the lobby, thunder following like the crack of a whip startling both men as it nearly deafened them. The tiny flame vanished. A mighty squall blew in through the doors, ushering more and more water into the building that would pose a serious problem if the storm persisted into the morning. Before long, V's feet would get wet. However, his focus went entirely to calming his nerves—and ensuring he hadn't lost his hearing. To no use, he'd covered his ears and cringed, shrinking into himself, but no harm had come to either him or his companion. A minute found them settled, and the rumble of incessant thunder was soon disregarded. With green eyes wide, V brushed back the hair in his face only for it to fall on his cheek again. He had his eyes on Daemon now, waiting for the so-called “favor.”

Composed, himself, Daemon tried again. “Yeah, anyway… Gimme— _show_ me your hand. I'll show you.”

V offered his right hand, detaching it with some effort from his arm, palm facing up. But it wasn't correct.

“Um, no, raise it—about there, yeah, and turn your palm down.”

V's hand was now suspended at about chest height, between them, with his palm facing down just as he'd been told. “What's this for?” he wondered again, a little more demanding than the first, but he was not kept in suspense for much longer when he watched Daemon's left hand assume its position as before, only closer to V's hand now and directly underneath it.

When the flame flicked to life, V's instinct was to jerk away.

“It's not gonna bite,” his friend urged, as serious as he'd ever been despite the faintest humor coloring his voice. But he was patient and encouraged the warlock to try again.

V knew it was foolish; he'd only reacted to the sight of fire, like any animal would. He was no better than a mouse—and beside him was a wolf capable of burning down a wood. For Daemon's words he had a frown before reaching over again, suspending his hand over the small flame at a height that was comfortable. Instantly, he knew what the goal was: to warm him. The radiating heat soothed frigid digits, teasing the rest of his arm with warmth he so desperately needed. Orbs of peridot appeared to come alive with the glow of the fire, themselves glowing and warm and magical. V was mesmerized, but he was also aware; and so he looked up, in Daemon's direction, and probed him through his gaze.

“Does that help?”

“Yes… Thank you.” V's voice was almost meek when it came. Soon, he moved his other hand in, holding both above the flame. Genuine was his gratitude, the expression reminding him that he had so much _more_ to be thankful for. But...he was still hesitant, for whatever reason, and he simply couldn't have been _sure_. Daemon was a demon, with him V wasn't particularly close, they hadn't known each other on very personal terms—what could he make of this relationship, and what was appropriate for it? Griffon's paranoia maintained its spot in V's brain, bleeding into the warlock's thought process the more the situation was analyzed. And so he started to worry; and if Daemon had said anything, he missed it.

V could hide behind his bravado, or his apathy, or his hair for as often as he liked, but it could never last long. Though his eyes were on the fire, he wasn't watching it. Within it, however, he imagined things. When it was time to draw his hands back to rub them over his arms, spreading renewed heat across unsettled flesh, his brow was furrowed and his eyes did not stray. He heard Daemon's voice and was obligated to look at him.

“Don't be shy, V,” the demon invited, seeming to think V was too modest to take from him.

“Why are you so nice to me?”

That might have given the air an added chill. It certainly caught Daemon off guard, the way V looked at him with his brow set, eyes searching, all gravity and sincerity. Oh, he _meant_ to ask that, _intended_ to ask that for _who knows_ how long.

The flame died in Daemon's hand as he stared, his own brow knitting, at V in minor disbelief. But soon he had half a grin to show and, through his tone of voice, a belief that the answer V sought should have been obvious. “Because we're on the same side? 'Cause you're here right now and you're cold?”

“That...that doesn't mean you have to care so much,” V insisted.

“I like you enough to care.”

_Damn._ Why did Griffon have to say anything? Why did V have to _listen_? Why did he have to think about it, _now_? But it was so obvious, it didn't _have_ to mean anything more: Daemon was an ally, and he'd become like a friend, and it was only reasonable that allies should aid one another. Daemon was seeing to V's needs, just as he should have if he were to be counted on, and there couldn't have been anything less than commendable, wholesome, appropriate in that. V liked him, too, or he wouldn't have tolerated him as he did. He wouldn't have so gradually softened, warmed up to him—all while still keeping some distance, a wary eye still stealing about him from time to time, a suspicion cropping up here and there when certain things were said or done. V defended him when he had to, _worried_ about him when the need arose, there couldn't have been anything strange or improper, or _bad_ , about any of that.

But still V had his worries, feathered demon's devilry be damned; he still had his assumptions and he'd felt generally right about them, seeing the kind of man Daemon was and remembering others who put on the sort of airs he did. But they did not have the benefit of any doubt. Moreover, they did not have the benefit of their _own_ benevolence, which a creature born of Hell's fires appeared to have more of by volumes. Daemon was different from the snakes that once slithered about in the city's underbelly, unafraid to coil round an easily breakable body only to inject him with their venom. Daemon was a demon, but he was more man than any human who claimed pride in their blood. Daemon was _good_ , and had proven time and again that he could only be selfless and considerate, and he would not cower in the face of danger but throw himself into battle. He would rend every foe poised against himself, against _V_ , infallibly. How, then, could the sorcerer suspect any ulterior motive? Even after he'd been given the only drink of water in the hotel when Daemon could have hoarded it for himself; even after Daemon showed uncompromising concern for V's health and comfort, and went so far as to expend his own power to give his companion a little bit of warmth—after even all of this, how could V doubt him? What right did he have to question motives, instincts, and feelings?

He knew, all along, that his familiar had been wrong. It wasn't Griffon's place to judge so harshly and even less to expect that V should mirror that. He may have been genuinely concerned, but to put so much pressure on the point was counterproductive. Remembering their stupid little quarrel made V's stomach sour, and it ultimately shamed him. He knew better than to give in to suspicion and paranoia, but he gave regardless. Now he felt foolish, beyond naive, sitting there with an indeterminable expression on his face as he struggled inwardly to find his response. Daemon was left in wait for a few seconds too long, and that small delay must have spoken to something about the warlock who'd eventually torn away his gaze, something that perhaps _shouldn't_ have been exposed, whether plainly or ambiguously.

V couldn't help thinking sometimes, and that was entirely his own mind bringing up _what ifs_ that were treacherous to heed. Now, for example, was not the time for it. Now, he had to find his strength to face the demon in front of whom he'd thoroughly embarrassed himself. “I...” His courage wavered, but he pushed himself to look Daemon in the eye. “I'm sorry, that was stupid.” _Shit_ , how was he supposed to defend himself after that? “I know,” he added, anticipating what he might hear, “I just...couldn't help wondering. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I really _am_ , you know. Grateful, I mean.” The storm outside went ignored while the storm within raged like one he'd never before felt. V wouldn't have bothered this much over an acquaintance, would he? But he didn't know what friendship was.

Daemon, bless his soul, was lenient when he shouldn't have been. That benevolence within him shined through again when he dismissed V's angst with a shake of his head. “Don't worry, I get it,” he said kindly, smiling his usual smile. “I'm a demon. You'd expect me to be demonic.”

_No, that's not it at all._ “Maybe, but… It's just that I don't expect _anyone_ to be nice to me.” Bright peridots were soulful, inked hands continued to hug himself. In spite of his privacy and his comfort, V would _spill_ a little. He supposed Daemon deserved it, given how patient he'd been with a man so flawed, so difficult like V. “I haven't been dealt the kindest hand when it comes to people. I just haven't been treated well, that's all, but that's become enough for me to suspect others when they _do_. I keep others at arm's length, and...that's what I do with you. But I trust you, you've given me reason to, and by now I really have no right to suspect you of anything. I don't know why I asked you that,” he said with marked disappointment, shaking his head as he cast his eyes below. “I couldn't tell you—but I know better. And I _should_ have, but… All men are fallible, and I am no exception.” V looked him in the eye again, still seeking forgiveness even though he'd gotten it. Indirectly, perhaps, but even directness wouldn't have been satisfactory.

There had to be far more frankness than whatever Daemon so far gathered if he wanted to convince V. What he would do was the next best thing: don a seriousness about him, turn more fully toward his company, and say, “V, listen. You've got _every_ right to look out for yourself. You haven't known me long, it's only natural you'd wonder what the hell my deal is. I _did_ come along uninvited.” The demon smirked with restraint, making plain his beliefs while his sentiments remained understated. “I don't belong, but you let me stick around. _I'm_ the one who oughta be grateful to you for putting up with me an' my shit.”

Whoever implied that Daemon had no place here, was a misfit, or was better off gone could not have been V; for, though he was at times frosty, never wished Daemon ill or away. The notion that he did not belong was a false one. Was he not among fellow misfits when he took to V's side? The warlock was again amused by him, slightly forgetting that he had transgressions for which to pay. It softened his brow, warmed his eyes. There was nothing for it: Daemon would not let him mope, so he may as well follow his lead and brighten a little. Pallid lips had something of a smirk of their own to offer. “Well…it's not _all_ shit.”

As there was warmth in V (never mind the cold that clung to his body), so had there been in his friend. He'd seen it, even in the dark, in eyes that were deep and often thoughtful and at times distant; and it made him feel twice as foolish for ever believing that any evil would be done by his hand. Maybe it was naive of V to let _all_ of his guard down, but he could not afford an effort at present. And maybe, for once, it was nice to sit in good company, free of tension and of fear, to be calm and to accept things as they were. He hadn't known that before. He had to speak again, to now reassure his _friend_ of his place. “It's what I was getting at earlier: You're different from everybody else. You're better to me than most, and I usually can't say that about the people I've met. So...you must be doing _something_ right.” Clearly, if V could stand to be near him and stomach the butchered English he would often hear spill out of his mouth, then “ _something_ ” had been different. For all of Griffon's malicious jeering, there was some truth to his play. There _were_ feelings to care about, and an ally to both respect and appreciate, and further still, a wolf in man's clothing to...like, _enough_. _Just_ enough.

“Polly doesn't seem to think so,” his friend, with a bite of humor, observed.

“He's just looking out for me,” replied V. He said so with a good heart, as though his rancor had been soothed, and that he meant to give Daemon a better impression of his cantankerous familiar. He knew there was no real animus between them, and that they'd only traded jabs because they were wont to communicate that way. It would never come to blows no matter what Griffon would threaten, and Daemon had obviously known better than to lay a harmful finger on a friend of V's. “He's more mouth than anything. I know he can be a _pain_ , to say the least, but it only takes getting used to.” V could not have been any more sincere.

“It's not _his_ opinion that matters anyway, am I right?”

“Indeed.”

It was for the best that, in the dark, they could not see the faintest color stealing upon their cheeks. V had nothing to add, and Daemon nothing to reply with, and suddenly it became strange to sit like this and do nothing but look pleasant, but it was truly a blessing sent from the gods that a frigid wetness touched bare toes and immediately snatched V's attention from the inadequacy that had begun to ruin him. He had a gasp for it and shot up from the couch to pull himself away from the encroaching rainwater. The poor thing was plenty cold already.

The lobby would flood at this rate. _Now_ V's mind was taken off personal matters straightaway. Daemon got up as well, unaware that his shoes had gotten wet first. He joined V's side where the floor was still dry, but both were promptly headed toward the stairwell while the storm—though it should have been thought a hurricane—invaded what was once believed safe harbor from the elements. V's mind dashed to his room and he wondered just how wet it had gotten now. He would not have been surprised to find the carpeting soaked through.

“I won't be able to sleep like this,” he complained in passing, sighing at the memory of his discomfort. “The weather's only gotten worse… I can't imagine how much water's come in by now.” He needn't mention the temperature: he still held himself, cold but no longer freezing. Going upstairs, however, was sure to change that.

Before they would ascend the three flights of stairs, Daemon halted, and in turn halted V. “Why don't you use my room? The window's not broken.”

“What, with you in it?” V gave him _such_ a disapproving look, already thinking he was up to his usual mischief.

That seemed to arouse a _look_ in response, one consisting primarily of teeth. It died, however, as fast as it'd come. “I meant that we trade places—or I fuck off to a different room, or hang out anywhere. I don't really care.” His shrug emphasized his indifference.

But there he went, being selfless and sacrificial again. V couldn't have been worth even the rest Daemon would lose for him, but the assumption clearly hadn't been staked in reality. It didn't appear to matter _what_ his need, as Daemon was willing to fulfill it. A strange way to be, but refreshing. There weren't many people on the Earth like that. Not even V was so kind, and he knew it. Survival depended on greed, and V simply could not afford to worsen his odds by sacrificing the little he could come by. A lot of it was down to character, too. Purely a simple difference in character. Be that as it may, V could not have entertained the suggestion made by his companion. He shook his head, blew a laugh, and looked the other way. “I might be a lot of things, but mean isn't one.”

While the offer hadn't come without lewd playfulness, that was in itself not the driving factor behind his decision. He knew, when it counted, that his space would be respected; like he knew also that he wasn't the kind of man who didn't like to stand on his own feet, provide for himself, or make his own way. V did not take, take, take—he would rather suffer than _take_ so much, make it a habit, sully his pride in the process. Daemon must have seen by now that V's pride was a ruinous thing.

That, however, did not deter him from insisting. “You gotta stop doin' that,” he moaned, plainly insincere. “When someone wants to give you somethin', it's rude not to take it, swee'heart.”

“While that's true on its face, it doesn't necessarily apply here.” Either his body had begun conforming to the cold, or that demon's flame was more potent than he first realized. V was almost reluctant to return to the fourth floor, but he would press on despite his misgivings. “I'm not trying to be rude,” he went on, taking the initiative to push open the door to the stairwell by his own power, “but I can't in good conscience deprive anyone of anything.” He was not up to hearing arguments, so decisively stepped inside the winding passage to begin his climb, tailed closely by his wolfish companion as was often the case.

“You're not doin' that, V. I don't need a room, but you do. You know how wiped out you are.”

_So transparent_. That would do him so much harm one day. But there wasn't a lie mightier than the truth nor a force known to man _or_ devil alike that could best it. V knew he had no counter, he _knew_ he was fatigued. He knew he was cold, hungry and dehydrated, and he wanted for basic creature comforts. It wasn't a life to live for _anyone_ , and he happened to be caught smack in the middle of it—but at least he didn't have to toil away alone, if that was any consolation at all. He didn't really think of it that way, but perhaps a change in attitude would help ease the wear and tear.

That was all something to think about another day, anyway. At present, V was more or less _hounded_ —and by a _wolf_ of all things. “You're not going to let me rest until I've given in, are you?” Continuing up the stairs, even as he listened to Daemon's affirmation, V wore himself down eventually. He had nothing more to say, feeling he'd said his piece. Even as he pushed through the door to the fourth floor and felt a blast of cold in his face, he was set to go straight to his room and try once more to sleep the night away. He nearly seized up from the change in temperature, forced now to hold himself tighter than before. Very much to his surprise, he found Shadow sitting outside the door to his room with Griffon beside her. A flash of lighting from within cast light over his cane in her mouth, his shoes on the floor before Griffon.

“What's going on here?” V approached, curiously assessing them.

“It's like someone turned on the shower in there,” Griffon, of course, answered. “We were starting to get soaked. The weather's lost its marbles.”

“The lobby's taking on water as well.” Shivering again, V's body became restless, but he was braver now and fought himself harder. “I don't think we're getting out of here,” he dryly joked.

“I don't think you're sleeping in _there_ ,” Griffon reminded coarsely. He narrowed his eyes at Daemon, getting himself in a huff. “And what's _he_ doing with you? We were _wondering_ where you disappeared off to.”

“Stop making it sound so...illicit.” V was uncomfortable with the implication. He knew it wasn't accurate, but his imagination was incapable of making things easier for him. Dismissing the thought altogether, the warlock walked to the gap between door and frame to peek inside, and he wished he hadn't. The gusts coming in were colder than when they'd started, and though the violence of the lightning and thunder lifted just a touch, the rainfall remained unforgiving. It pounded into the walls, the carpet, the furniture, just about everything in sight. He grunted his displeasure as he sought cover behind the door. “I'm afraid you're right, though. I'm...not sure where—”

“You _know_ where.” The disguised demon butted in without tact or grace, serious and with arms crossing.

V looked at him with equal stubbornness. “You know I can't.”

“You mean you _won't_.”

“Hold the phone, hold the phone,” Griffon interrupted. “What the hell are you two talking about?”

“Daemon,” V answered first and firmly, and hadn't taken his eyes off the fiend in question, “thinks I should sleep in his room.”

“What, with him in it?”

_That_ was hilarious. “Great minds,” wasn't it? V couldn't help but crack a smile at Griffon's thought. Daemon made a face then.

“No. But I'm not that selfish, so I couldn't take it.” Rubbing his arms made next to no difference anymore. It was simply an absent-minded habit now, left to repeat. Eye contact broke fleetingly before, again, Daemon's voice restored it. Like the yearning of V's stomach, he was persistent, and it might have begun to chafe. Unlike V's stomach, however, he was not necessarily forgettable; he would not go away and he would linger in the back of the mind.

“Fact is,” he opened his argument, “if you're not fit to go on, we're stuck. This whole effort's all you, V. You can help others as long as you're able to help yourself, and you're not gonna do that if you're exhausted. I'd say life's bein' real generous with you right now, so…go to my room and _sleep_ for fuck's sake. Don't be an idiot.”

That was all true and V couldn't have hoped to beat it back. His face had grown sullen and his demeanor changed to reflect the defeat he'd been handed. This one wasn't humiliating, but it made him feel like he was as idiotic as he'd been warned _not_ to be. He had to be talked down to, lectured, treated like a child and it scathed. He could suppose it was no one's fault, but Daemon was the one doing the talking. Daemon was the one doing the _worrying_. _Thinking ahead_ —something V wished he could have done more of. If he could think when it counted instead of thinking _too much_ when it didn't matter, he may well cut embarrassing himself out of his life completely. But few things went his way. The truth was laid bare between them, two demonic familiars acting as witnesses, and all V had to do was accept it. It would have only been the right thing to do. Perhaps he was being stubborn for the principle—and what a disaster that would be if he continued.

His reluctance to speak spoke for him. Eventually, his gaze departed.

Griffon said things, but V hadn't listened. He left the group for a spell when he squeezed inside the wet, drafty room. It took seconds for him to return, squeezing again through the gap to emerge with a water bottle in his hand. The same one he'd been drinking from earlier. With all of his things out of the uninhabitable room, he was no longer committed to it. Next, he took his cane from Shadow with the same amount of consideration he'd give everything else he did. From the handle he grasped it, pressing tip to carpet. V did wonder where his hunger went, but it did not surprise him that he'd blocked it out so completely that it became a thing of the past. But his body was tired, so very tired; both it and his mind begged respite. They'd been kept active too long, too intensely over the weeks that had passed. V was a miserable man, weary and disillusioned and neglected. He could have well broken apart on his walk up the stairs, but he would always push himself to endure just a little more.

Now, however, he may have pushed his last.

A bullheaded creature could fight for so long, but the desire, the _need_ , to collapse and sleep through spring, summer and autumn was the greatest he remembered ever feeling. Ultimately, what did it matter that Daemon was right? Genuinely, V could not have given a shit any longer. His stomach may be empty, his head damp and his body chilled through, but the very least he could do was to lie down and sleep. Yes, he could manage at least that one thing.

The wolf would have his attention when V turned to face him, a very flat expression worn on very pale features. “Show me this room of yours.”

The walk on the way was brief. It would have been quiet if the raptor ever learned to shut up. The door to the room had evidently broken, hanging by one hinge nearest the floor. A tour was not necessary as all rooms were mirrors of one another; V was confident enough to walk in without missing a beat, relieved by the quietude of the room compared to his own, even with a storm outside still raging. But, merciful heaven, the window was intact! The room was dry! V didn't have a care for its cleanliness or a lack thereof, not when his object was in plain sight.

Shadow padded in, claimed the bed he would use, and went right to work warming it for her master. She heard no rebuke. Griffon darted in after her, dropping V's shoes off by the bed before finding a spot beside her. The water bottle was set on the counter, as before, and the cane was set against the wall right by the bed's headboard. V's defeat was marked and made undeniable when upon disheveled sheets he sat as if he carried three times his weight. His spine bent egregiously as he sank into himself. All the while, Daemon watched from the door. V's eyes inevitably met his. What could one have said to the other? Only thanks were due, a bid good night, and the rest was left to chance.

“I owe you for this.”

“Forget it, V.”

“Then...thank you.” _Again._

It was left at that. His friend parted with a simple response, leaving V to his much-needed rest. Where Daemon would go to do what was well beyond V's imaginings, but it wasn't his affair and he counted on Daemon's trustworthiness to be within the building come the morn.

V would still consider himself indebted to him, no matter the dismissal.

While it was his habit to sleep topless, he neither felt comfortable to do that now nor wanted to bother with the expenditure of time and energy. It was still too chilly to even consider it. In the same clothes he did battle in, V lied down at long last. His back ached from the sudden tension taken off, from the flat, horizontal position it assumed. But this was the pain of _relief_ , and in that moment V believed he could sleep through anything, even with the knowledge that three floors below him a cadaver actively decomposed. He exhaled wearily, but before allowing himself to drift arrested Griffon's attention with something he'd been meaning to say. “You're forgiven, by the way. Don't make me change my mind.” He wouldn't say more, no matter what his raptor would reply. The warlock was soothed by Shadow's warmth when he rolled on his right side (his habit and preference), going further to drape an arm over her shoulders. She, like a sentinel, guarded his peace while Nightmare, unseen, his slumber. Griffon would do his part, respectful in the way he roosted atop the pillow V hadn't really made much use of and offered body heat of his own, however minimal, to the top of V's head.

He couldn't have had much of a care now, and though that had been good on his nerves, he was still aware of the state of things, still aware of the unease his own body afforded him by its need for sustenance. But that could be mended in time, with patience. Tonight, V could relax, let his guard down even though he knew demonic roots could push through the hotel's foundations and rattle it all apart at any moment. Even with the elements so bitterly clashing outside, the noise was lessened a mite in this other room. He could handle it in here. With his eyes shut, he invited his unconscious mind to take over. And while it crept slowly upon him, he thought he should have given greater thanks for the sacrifice—the _favor_ —he was done. He might have considered too many things to be sacrifices; he may have seen them when they weren't there, but to give up one's bed for someone who hadn't been remarkably giving for so many days… Well, Daemon might have preferred it that way, but V never did feel good about taking such necessary things for himself. Here he was, advantaged for having taken, and not giving his thanks, his _real_ thanks, for the things which benefited him. A bottle of water, a bed, and fire for warmth were not all of it. Material things were not the beginning and the end of the demon's acts of selflessness. There was very much more to him: he'd been willing to give _himself_ time and again in the face of danger, to prioritize V's life over his own; to allow him his command, to obey his word, to give him space and equal proximity when needed; to be helpful, to be company, to be a friend. _These_ were the things to which gratitude was owed. But V could only ever manage a small “thank you” here and there, directly, a result of specific favors or offerings. And though of late he gave more thought to the probability of expressing his deepest, genuine, most appreciative gratitude, it came to be that he thwarted himself, losing the spine or simply not having enough of it to say the kind of “thank you” his companion deserved. The things Daemon did for him over the course of the day were good, he knew he wouldn't soon forget them. It wasn't _everything_ he wanted to give thanks for, but the gratitude he showed nonetheless would have to do for now. An opportunity to say more would come, it was only a matter of time. But why, oh why, did such an idea morph into an instinct, to incubate in heart rather than head? For all of the cold about his bones, it was within his ribs where heat would concentrate and compound. V was a sentimental creature at his core: he would feel for others, and so for Daemon felt that justice was deserved.

A clap of thunder rattled the window. The sound was the last V would hear for many hours.


	3. Epilogue

While V slept, Nightmare was active. Its duty was to keep his sleep free of torment, and this it accomplished nearly infallibly on a nightly basis. His fears it kept at bay, all of his guilt and pain forgotten for fleeting hours while he restored both strength and courage. Tonight was no different. Terrors and phantoms that haunted the mind by day were silenced and hidden away by night; nightmares consumed, the void filled instead by scenes and colors and sensations V was unlikely to remember when awake. He _would_ rarely remember his dreams, but he did not need them to enrich his life. So heavily he slumbered through the storm as if he was right at home, as if he had no duties to see done. Fell flames in shades of violet lit the streets, whipping away in the gusts that blew in all directions. In his mind the sky was starless, cloudless, inky and all-consuming; below was a city street wet with rain, the puddles reflecting the light of the fires that dotted the land. These did not crackle, did not burn, did not diminish nor expand. There was no color save for this, but the streets were familiar and he felt no danger. V was among them, somehow, seeing and being but not burning, not tiring.

Through the fire he tried to peer, as if he sought to get away. Instinct told him to avoid the flames even though he'd known that none would smite him. But he weaved in and out, dodging them when they were still, pausing when gusts pushed against his body (though he couldn't see it, he thought he didn't have one). Betwixt the flames he spied flashes of crimson, darting all about him. This he also thought was familiar, but memory drew a blank. A pair of eyes in the night, wild and cunning, marked him, fixed on him, teased him by darting back and forth, in and out. A gust blew into his back, pushed him toward a tall flame and he was consumed. A sensation like submerging in water, almost smothering, yet somehow comforting, feeding him courage the longer he stood aflame. Wild eyes drew him out. He followed. Every step led him elsewhere; he may have walked in circles, he didn't know. When a flame would hug him, it didn't burn.

But those eyes were bigger than before. Closer, he thought; he marked puffs of breath in the black air coming from the shapeless thing that kept him company. Seemed he'd lost his voice for he could not utter even a hum. The fires were incapable of throwing any light on the thing, and like him it walked through them unharmed. At one point, V thought he'd gotten close enough to hear its breathing; he thought it radiated warmth, but it was always beyond him. All the while, he dove deeper and deeper, the void endless. He never did get out when the dream melted into another, a new scene evolving before his mind's eye to show him the Qliphoth, a crimson cloud swirling above, and in all the devastation he recognized round him, all was serene. Here, he was alone, feeling nothing, knowing less, and he heard Nightmare's faintest vocalizations _somewhere_ near him—or everywhere, part of the environment. He was within a courtyard, facing a clear path to the tree. But he did not go, he did not go.

Two voices bled through, indeterminable, but this time he _saw_ nothing. The darkness was whole and impenetrable, and his mind soft. He was neither here nor there now.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

_Wait…_

Something heavy shifted under his arm.

“Come on, time to hustle.”

_Griffon._ So, the warlock had awakened after all. The demon had left his spot earlier in the morning, sitting now on a corner of the bed to watch his master stir. Shadow pulled herself free from his embrace, leaping off the bed with nary a bother. She kept vigil most of the night, fully aware of the conversation had between her infernal cohorts only moments prior.

V thought he could steal a few more minutes of sleep, but it'd been too late for that now. Pointlessly, he curled further into himself, anchoring his head to the bottom edge of his pillow, but it was all over. Nightmare had its fill, and V's head was suddenly empty. He couldn't have remembered what he saw in slumber even if he tried. He grunted his reluctance as he forced his eyes open, closing them just as quickly when the light of the morning greeted his face. He hadn't expected the clouds to recede. With the thunderstorm exhausted, the sun took its cue to appear. Hopefully it would dry out the street below; V couldn't have imagined how wet it was out there.

Ah, but he didn't feel quite right now that his senses were flooding back.

As a matter of fact, his head was too light to allow him to rise with any promptness. It gave him a dizziness as he sat upright, and he had to cover his eyes if only to settle his vision. His familiars took notice. He _looked_ poorly.

“What's with you? You don't look too hot.”

“I feel unwell,” the sorcerer whispered. Evidently, he lacked the strength to speak any louder. His arm fell on the mattress, and now uncovered eyes squinted as they looked at Griffon. “I feel weak.” He shook the cold and that in itself was a relief, but it meant little to the anemia that'd come knocking overnight—really, over the past several _days_. The man hadn't eaten as he should have, and now the result of starvation lay at hand. He should have known—in fact, he _did_ know—that this would come to pass. It was inevitable, and he'd gotten a sense of it yesterday. He had no way of staving it off. But what could he do now that it was, perhaps, too late? There wasn't a bite of food in the place, and he was in no shape to be up and about. God, he didn't want to think about how weak and ridiculous this would make him look in front of a stranger. _Daemon_ had never known about V's little problem, did he?

Griffon moaned his displeasure. “Oh, no, not _this_. It's always _something_ with you.” He stepped closer to his master, eyeing him thoroughly. “You don't look _that_ bad, either.”

“I feel awful,” V admitted, which was as true as anything. His pallor must have been a shocking thing to see in the day's light. This was nothing new to him or to his familiars. They'd lived with each other long enough to understand _what_ affected V, how, and why. These spells of his were, though infrequent, familiar. Worst of all was that now he'd become a certain burden when he'd wanted so much to avoid that. But his pride was the very least of his worries; it should have been. He needed to sit back, but he opted for the opposite when he pushed himself to slide off the bed. They had to get out of here, that's all he knew, that was the plan.

Griffon urged him to be careful as he and Shadow watched, attentive and at the ready. V held on to the edge of the bed as he conformed to a standing position, adjusting to the change in level, the flow of blood through his veins. His head felt soft, _fizzy_ , almost. “I think...I can go...” He'd forgotten about his feet, though, and the sandals he had to put on them. _Damn._ Griffon was good enough to stop him, however.

“Wait, whoa, hold on. Are you daffy? You can't even take a step, much less go down three flights of 'em! You better sit and stay right here.”

V heeded one part of that advice. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, but insisted that he get ready to leave. “Help me, my shoes...”

No one budged.

“Please. I have to eat.”

“We can bring you room service. What could be better?”

This couldn't do. _Wouldn't_. He needed to get up, shake the cobwebs, get moving, get working. This would not do and he was likely prepared to send himself to an early grave just to satisfy the need to feel useful. His sandals were _just_ beyond his toes, _barely_ out of reach.

But who should walk by at the precise moment to solve all of their problems? Daemon poked his head in, observed the warlock and his friends, and wondered aloud if all was well. Clearly, the answer to follow was not one he wanted to hear. Boundaries be damned: he would step into the room, stop in front of the ghostly, skeletal figure, and study him.

It unnerved V. His eyes shot up, burned through his lashes, burned into Daemon. It was enough to push him one solitary step backward.

“This ain't new,” Griffon explained, “it's nothing serious. You just gotta feed him and he'll be right as rain.” He lied: it would _become_ serious if this neglect went on any longer. He'd seen what happened to V when his anemia knocked him out cold. They couldn't have that now, they couldn't afford it, and they sure as hell couldn't afford it _later_. V understood that, saw the danger in imperiling both himself and others by letting his health deteriorate, and that was why he wanted to push himself now. He still had a chance to right what was wrong and to restore his vitality in the process. The simple act of eating was all it took, and it was the one thing that was heinously uncertain during these turbid times.

Daemon was unconvinced by Griffon's characterization, and frankly V was ashamed by it. He grunted for attention and Shadow was the one to answer the call. He wanted _her_ , after all. With minimal instruction, she passed him one sandal at a time and watched with diligence the way he slipped his right foot in, fastened the buckles, and took his painstaking time to do it. Dizziness didn't matter; he moved on to his left foot, repeated the process, and now had both dressed feet touching the floor. “I'm about ready,” he announced quietly. He wanted to make use of the facilities before leaving.

His companions left him, reluctant though they were to allow him such freedom of decision at all. Nevertheless, they waited for him; Daemon, however, left the floor to assess the threat level beyond.

It was very much to V's relief that the bathrooms' _other_ functions had not been impaired as yet by the Qliphoth's emergence. It was also to his appreciation that his lightheadedness had dissipated just a mite. A small enough amount to allow him to walk about the room without having to hold on to anything, anyway. But he cleaned up, gathered himself, and stepped out the door where he spied his familiars standing near the stairwell. His cane in one hand, the bottle of water in the other, and he was set to leave this place for good. “Ah… Where'd he go?”

“He said he wanted to check out the lobby,” Griffon said. “Heh… _Check out_. Get it?” He made himself chuckle, but composed himself when it was clear V would not mirror him. “Are you sure you're good to go?”

V _would_ have laughed, and indeed _had_ found it funny, if he was in the right mood—and if he could afford to rattle his brain that way. “I'm fine… We'll have a better chance of finding food…if we're outside.”

“You know demons are gonna be out there, looking for easy pickings like you.”

With half of his weight bearing down on his cane, he shrugged lightly. “That's why you're here. And Daemon. All of you. You'll have to...put in...just a little more...effort...” He needed to take a breath to continue. “Now, let's just go... Please.” With his first step forward, panther and raptor dematerialized to paste to their respective places on his skin. No arguments heard, their master won. He, slowly and with his greatest care, descended the stairwell without once releasing the railing. More than once he thought he might slip, or drop his bottle as it was held precariously in the hand that was also occupied by his cane. The descent aggravated his dizziness, prompting him to pause at every floor for a rest before resuming his trip. He must have taken too long: Daemon appeared at the bottom of the passage.

“There you are.”

V made it to the final step before he chanced to speak. “I'm lightheaded. I can't move fast.” He didn't appear to notice, or care, that there was not a preferable amount of distance between the two. V could hardly straighten, barely look high enough to make eye contact. His arm was heavy over his cane, itself pressed firmly into the concrete. The red light illuminating the exit to the passage helped him to see through strands of hair and heavy lids.

“You shouldn't be movin' at all. 'Sides, you'd have a hard time of it out there—the floor's all wet.”

“So?” V was undeterred, of course. He asked Daemon to open the door, let him out, and both returned to the lobby. What a difference made in fourteen hours! Overnight, a puddle moved in from the outdoors and expanded to cover nearly the entirety of the floor. A shallow body of water, but a body of water nonetheless. The storm drains had clearly not been up to the task of swallowing up all the water dumped on the city within a day. That was the least of anyone's concerns for the time being. V would admit that Daemon had been right: that he, in his state, could not have had a smooth go of wading through some several inches of water. How much could it have been? Three inches? Four at most? Not enough to sweep him away, but he'd get his shoes and feet wet needlessly, and to dry them would be both a chore and a waste of time. V could not have forgotten that he needed to eat, and he would never meet that goal while he weighed anchor here.

He was vexed, running on empty, severely dehydrated, and his head felt not unlike a balloon. It rendered him weak, frail, useless; even standing was difficult now that he'd lost both strength and stamina. His bodily equilibrium was thrown out of order, and he had only this precious period of time to set it right. A man cannot wait around for miracles. Even where he stood now, so close to the stairwell, the soles of his shoes absorbed water. Now, V was a man of pride and he treasured his self-reliance, but if he were to make any progress he'd not do it alone. Stubborn as he was, that realization was a little too sobering to allow his delusion to go on. He would need help now as he had needed it in the past, as he would need it doubtlessly in the future. Though his head was soft and his brain inhibited, he thought of a solution to his immediate problem. The demons around him insisted that he wait and rest—but nothing was ever so simple.

“You'll...have to do me...another favor...” V shouldn't have sounded so winded when he'd had more than a full night of sleep. He knew what ailed him, how to treat it, and how to avoid it. Under the circumstances, however, he was incapable of staving off his trouble. If he could _move_ before worse came to worst, he may barely dodge an embarrassing outcome and circumvent the need to explain himself to his newest acquaintance. Of course, these things don't stay secret for long... “So that I may get across, I'll have to... _ride_ the wolf.” This V was reluctant to do. On top of the sourness of his system, he had to contend with proximity; and such a potentiality dragged on his facial features, making quite clear that he was far from pleased with the idea. Still, this was his only option, and he could at least count on Daemon to be an obliging sort.

Flawed as the idea was, V found greater comfort in a wolfish hide than a human one. Both were the same, belonging to the same one demon, but V's perceptions had been hard to shake loose: Animals were safer, dependable, genuine; humans were duplicitous, harmful, wicked. Demons, like _Daemon_ , fell somewhere between the two. V could try harder with him. All things considered, V laid his decision plainly before his partner. To his satisfaction, Daemon was as generous as ever. He didn't have a word of protest to spew.

Steps away, he morphed into the beast V sought. Black smoke clouded his form, but even within it there was a shadow blacker, a discernible form changing before watchful green eyes. In seconds the plumes diminished, clinging to the demon's legs, hovering above the water, and now there appeared a wolf of enormous size, his height about even with V's, with pelt black as soot and eyes a piercing crimson. Smoke surrounded him, flowing from crevasses of tamed fire bored into his frame, billowing from between his jaws. And, yet, so menacing a beast had his paws dipped in standing rainwater as if any wolf born of the natural world. V was unflinching in his line of sight.

This had not been the first time he'd seen Daemon for what he _really_ was. If V had been any other man, he'd have fainted at the sight, or scrambled away for his life. Demons were his business, of all shapes and sizes, and he may as well have looked at the wolf as if he'd had a potential familiar to claim. But that was a practice he'd called quits years ago. To him, the fiery demon was to be his ride out of here. V sighed his bother. “Good boy,” he remarked lifelessly (yet nothing would stop him from throwing in a dash of his wit).

If Daemon grinned at him, he couldn't make it out. Large jaws did part, however, and a tongue peeked out from his maw. “Ya sure 'bout this?” His voice would change to match his form, now a deep timbre and demonic distortion with which to unnerve folk of fainter hearts.

“Please, I'll improve if I get out.” V's fatigue weighed on bony shoulders and a taxed soul. “All I need is food… If I eat soon, I'll be okay.”

“I could just find some and bring it to you.”

“No. I've had enough here.”

“Hop on, then.” Daemon stepped forward, crouching a touch so the warlock could climb aboard his back.

“You won't burn, will you?” A cautious wonder, to which Daemon answered with confidence when he quelled the man's fears. It _sounded_ trustworthy, and V had made it quite clear with himself that he _trusted_ in Daemon.

It took some effort to climb smoky, ashy fur as every movement made was a sluggish one. V was hardly nimble today, hindered by a dizziness that was sure to wash him away if he made the wrong move. His heart had been particularly audible in his ears, its rhythm quick even though he'd done everything to ignore it. V scrambled over the wolf's heavy frame like an awkward child, hauling himself up by nothing more than the strength in his arms. With his legs dangling off each flank, however, he believed he was successfully on. It wasn't too different from mounting a horse, but V had not the benefit of experience to compare the two. It was unimportant in the grand scheme. Without, also, the benefit of reins, he had only the demon's scruff to hold on to. With full hands, that would prove a challenge.

This was new to V. To sit on a demon was something very few people could claim to have done, and to ride one like it was a domesticated animal was something even fewer could ever boast about. If V had only been in better shape, he'd have _absorbed_ the experience more thoroughly, perhaps with more wonder and enjoyment. When Daemon rose to his full height, the change in altitude was startling. V would have to lean forward a little, especially if he hoped to pass through the doors, but it was a help that his body was weak enough to bend beneath its own weight. He slouched, and he'd not be bothered to correct that. “You'll move slowly, won't you?”

“Gimme some credit,” the demon assured. “I'm carryin' precious cargo.”

“Well, I'm ready.”

Sections of the street were badly flooded while others dried in the sun. It was hard, now, to believe a storm had _just_ passed through here to make a bigger mess out of a city already ravaged by forces beyond nature. With everything in disarray, the weather had destroyed little but made wet everything in sight. In the morning light, V and his party would be easy to spot and, at the pace they went, easy to subdue. V didn't fear attack, however, nor did he give it very much thought beyond what was necessary. With Daemon carrying him out into the day, he was suddenly offended by the glare of the outdoor light. How long this torment would last would depend on his efforts—but he'd be damned if he wasn't grateful to be out of the hotel for good; to leave behind death and decay, petty squabbles, and conversations that he felt he'd handled clumsily. Things that he'd said, done, and impressions that he made—that was all best left behind, and forgotten if his mind was so willing. Nothing was ever that simple, of course. His sentimentalist's heart had ideas of its own.

The breeze outside was mild and pleasant, and strong enough to push his hair from his face without making a horrible mess of it. The pure air was in itself cleansing, and though it took with it traces of death and ruin wherever it blew, it was no less a livening thing for V's body. He breathed it in, purposefully, suggesting to his mind that it would _h_ _eal_. But that was not practical. In the end, he had to count on Daemon to, potentially, sniff something edible out. Preferably before V would lose consciousness: all of this travel was beginning to dizzy more.


End file.
